FIC: "Happy Endings" for gm_weasley

Jun 16, 2006 22:42

Title: Happy Endings
Author/Artist: ???
Recipient's name: gm_weasley
Characters/Pairings: Arabella Figg, Minerva McGonagall
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Following an attack by Death Eaters, Arabella Figg faces life alone for the first time in decades.
Warnings: Some disturbing references and gory descriptions
Notes: Firstly, thanks to my wonderful and super sekrit beta for the handholding! Secondly, dear gm_weasley, this story really wanted to be a novella, but I have finally cut it down to size. I hope you like it, and that it fits with your vision of Mrs Figg. ♥

"Arabella?" The voice was practised, the soft tone pitched firmly enough to pull Arabella inexorably out of her dream, so that one moment she was drinking tea with her grandmother, who had been dead for nearly forty years, and the next she was gazing into warm brown eyes, deeply set in a face that she didn't recognise.

"Hello, Arabella," the woman said, and smiled, but there were anxious lines around the corners of her mouth. Arabella tried to respond, but found that she had no energy to open her mouth properly, and her greeting came out as a groan.

The woman patted her arm gently. "You're in St Mungo's," she said, and she was definitely worried now, Arabella realised by the serious set of her lips. She began to worry, too. "I'm Healer Luxcombe. Arabella, how much do you remember of what happened?"

"What happened?" Arabella struggled to sit up, and abandoned the effort halfway, her head coming to rest against the headboard with an uncomfortable bump. "What do you mean, how much do I…?" She trailed off, the other woman's serious, sympathetic expression filling her with dread.

"Do you remember," the Healer elaborated, "what happened when the Death Eaters broke into your house?"

Arabella shivered. "Death Eaters? I - why would they come to us? We keep a low profile; they wouldn't bother themselves with us!" Her voice was too loud, but perhaps that was what convinced Healer Luxcombe, because the latter nodded and sighed, eyes horribly sad.

"I'll leave you to eat now, my dear," she said, gesturing towards a plate of steaming shepherd's pie that lay on top of the cabinet by the bed. Even as she spoke, however, her earlier words were unlocking doors and sweeping back curtains in Arabella's memories. There was the front door an instant before it had smashed inwards; there was John reaching for his wand; and there was -

She must have made a sound, because the Healer, who had been halfway to the ward entrance, was at her side again immediately. Thin, crisp sleeves hugged her tightly, and a soft voice murmured, "It's all right, my dear; cry as much as you like - we know you've been through a terrible time."

But Arabella didn't cry, although she felt tears bunching in her chest. "John?" she asked, fingers clenched desperately around the other woman's forearm as if to pre-empt the answer that she knew was coming.

"I'm so sorry." The Healer sounded heartbroken, and Arabella wondered how many times she'd dealt with this situation in recent years. "He didn't - he didn't make it."

Hearing the answer she'd anticipated felt too final. Despite the memory - a single image of a man spread-eagled against the wall where their sofa had been a few moments earlier, his expression chillingly empty - Arabella felt like a schoolchild who had been given the wrong answer by her teacher. That couldn't be right! John, who had bowled people over with his gentle charm; John, who had always seemed indifferent to her status as a Squib, but who had defended her as if it was second nature to him; John, whose easy air of camaraderie had ensured that ex-students were always dropping in when they passed through Hogsmeade; John, with his grey-blond hair and rugged features and his warm voice; John could not be dead. It simply wasn't possible.

"There are Aurors here," the Healer said gently. "If you don't want to talk to them yet, I'm sure we can send them packing. But they want to ask you about your attackers."

"Now," muttered Arabella thickly, "I'll see them now." The sooner she talked to someone in authority, the less likely the Death Eaters were to decide that she needed to die in case she gave information about them to the Aurors. That was what the Ministry leaflet had said, and she knew that John would have agreed, even though many whispered that giving evidence about Death Eaters would only lead to revenge attacks.

A man and a woman stepped forward and began questioning her quietly. Arabella couldn't help them much, because her memories were still fuzzy, and the female Auror was pushy enough to irritate her, but she tried to respond calmly. Those people had killed John. It was important.

At first, the Aurors asked general questions: what had she and John been doing when the attack occurred? Did she recall anything that might identify the attackers? Voices, accents? "No," said Arabella, but then a memory floated to the surface of her mind, of a cut-glass accent horribly like John's own, only the tone had been so very icy, whereas John's was always warm. She relayed what she remembered of the voice, impersonal behind the black mask.

The female Auror lowered her voice and leant forward, the pink in her cheeks coarsening in the lamplight. "Arabella, I know this will be painful for you, but we have to ask: do you remember what they did to you?"

"No," said Arabella, shaking her head violently. "No!"

The woman tried again. "So, you don't remember whether - I'm sorry, my dear - whether you were raped?"

"No," Arabella whispered. "No, I wasn't -" She glimpsed the embarrassment on the man's face, the knowing sympathy on the woman's, and curled up and away from them until her forehead rested against the chilly wood of the bedside cabinet.

Voices trickled over her shoulder - I'm afraid you'll have to leave for the time being; our patient is clearly extremely distressed and then, Yes, well, obviously, but we need details if we're going to catch the bastards. The female Auror sounded frustrated and weary. Yes, yes, it's too soon; we'll come back later, but we'll post guards to be on the safe side. I don't think they'll come back to finish the job, but we might as well make sure. The voices dropped to a murmur and then faded away while Arabella stared at the whorls in the wood and concentrated on not thinking. That was when she remembered Mr Paws. She rolled over and caught the eye of a passing Healer, a young man with thinning brown hair who was pushing a trayful of odd-looking potions.

"We - we have a cat," she said quickly. "Do you know…?"

"I'm sorry," said the Healer, and for an instant Arabella took this as confirmation that Mr Paws was dead, too, but then he continued: "Only humans would be brought here. I'll see if I can find out whether there was evidence of a cat, alive or dead, at the scene."

Arabella nodded and tried to block out a new image of John, spread-eagled against the wall and screaming, by picturing Mr Paws slinking back into their cottage and resuming his old seat on the sofa.

*

John's funeral was a week later, and Arabella was permitted to leave St Mungo's for the occasion. Minerva McGonagall came to meet her, and was given strict orders by Healer Luxcombe not to let Arabella out of her sight until she was returned to the hospital. She faded to the back of the church during the ceremony, leaving Arabella to sit stone-hard in the front pew, facing John's brother as he addressed the mourners. She felt John's mother, a soft, crumpled presence to her right, and heard John's nephew asking what a Squib was during the second hymn, followed by frantic shushing on the part of John's sister-in-law. Arabella's sister-in-law, too, she supposed, but it didn't feel that way. However politely they all exchanged condolences, the grief in his family's eyes every time they glanced her way reproached her as painfully as any recriminations could have done.

After the service, Arabella braved the drizzle, along with John's family, to greet the mourners. There weren't many of them: in the current political climate, showing solidarity with victims of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters could have serious consequences. She remembered very few details later: the warm clasp of Albus Dumbledore's hands as he leaned in and said a few words about John's teaching life; Alice Longbottom's quiet hug; Lily Potter's more impassioned embrace. Both women - girls, really - were heavily pregnant, and Arabella almost berated them for coming. But she didn't want to seem ungrateful, so she nodded at them and etched a grim smile onto her face before grasping the hand of the next mourner.

As they left, Arabella announced that she would be going home that evening. Minerva nodded. "I thought you might want to do that. There's some milk in the fridge, and I took the liberty of buying a few supplies for you."

Arabella thanked her, suppressing a twinge of irritation. The gesture had been kindly meant, and she had no wish to face anyone in Hogsmeade that evening while shopping for groceries. Merely returning to the house would be difficult enough.

She allowed Minerva to escort her back to St Mungo's, where she immediately discharged herself. Healer Luxcombe looked disapproving, but said nothing beyond requesting that she come in the following week for a check-up, to which Arabella acquiesced without complaint. She simply wanted to go home.

The rain had cleared by the time Minerva left her at the front gate, and weak evening sunshine was filtering through the shrubs that bordered the lawn. The grass needed cutting, Arabella noted, and then realised that she would have to find some way of performing that task without magic. John had always seen to the garden. Her lips pressed tightly together, she hugged her bag into her side and marched up the path towards the house.

Upon finishing their investigations, Aurors had replaced the front door and delivered a key to St Mungo's a few days earlier. Arabella had spent hours inspecting it while in hospital, wondering what the point was of locks that offered no security against torture and murder. Now she inserted the key into the keyhole with mingled feelings of trepidation and eagerness.

She stepped inside the hall and then froze. The house was silent, but the shadowy doorways looked as if they might conceal anyone who liked to hide there. What if the Death Eaters were back, waiting to finish their work? What if they returned during the night? John had placed protective spells around the house, but now, as far as Arabella knew, she was defenceless. Tomorrow she could ask someone - Minerva, perhaps - to reinstate the spells. But it was too late to do that this evening. She would simply have to face her fear. For a moment, she wished desperately that she had accepted when Minerva had offered to stay in their spare room for the night.

"Mowr." The noise was faint, but Arabella would have recognised it anywhere; she was outside again in an instant, her bag forgotten in the hallway. "Mr Paws?" she called, her voice high with hope. "Mr Paws?"

The lavender on the front lawn parted, and a bedraggled black cat sprinted towards her ankles. Arabella gathered the forlorn-looking creature into her arms, holding him to her face until she could feel his angry purrs vibrating against her cheekbone.

"Oh, sweetheart!" Her shoulders shook for a few moments, and very soon Mr Paws was slightly damp from her tears, but he didn't seem to mind too much: clearly being cuddled and damp was an improvement on being rained on and damp. He wriggled in her arms, but only in order to snuggle into a more comfortable position.

Sniffing, Arabella stood and faced the house once more. "Come on," she said, fumbling for a handkerchief with one hand as she balanced Mr Paws in the crook of her other arm. "Let's see if we can get you some food." She stepped over the threshold again, and this time made it all the way into the kitchen, averting her eyes from the living room doorway and flicking every light switch that she passed.

There was indeed a bottle of milk in the refrigerator, as well as several tins of cat food on the counter, along with a note and a bobbin of purple thread.

I'll drop by in the morning, Minerva had written, but if you need anything in the meantime, please use this Portkey. It will take you directly to my rooms, and nowhere else.

There was a large gap, and then a scribbled: We've known each other for a long time. I hope you know that I'm always willing to help you if you need it.

Minerva.

Typical Minerva! She really was such a caring woman, although they'd never been close. Arabella had always been wary, nervous of the fact that Minerva worked closely with John, too conscious of her failings as a Squib. She'd been jealous, in fact, although whenever she admitted this to herself, she'd always acknowledged that she was being irrational. John was hers and she knew it. Furthermore, Minerva was a decent woman, who would never intentionally interfere with a marriage.

As a young woman, Arabella had never allowed her status as a Squib to affect her self-confidence. She'd even enjoyed challenging the assumptions of the wizards she'd encountered in her daily life. Holding down a job had been difficult in the wizarding world, however, and when she'd married John, she'd given up the idea of a career with something like relief. She had been happy working part-time in Madam Puddifoot's, and daydreaming about the children who had never, for whatever reason, materialised.

Was that when she'd capitulated?

Arabella located a saucer, put out some food for Mr Paws and made herself a cup of tea. Then she retired to her bedroom with the Portkey, closing the door carefully on the shadowed living room. She would deal with that in the morning.

Throughout the night, Arabella kept the light on and the Portkey within grasping distance. She lay on John's side of the bed, Mr Paws a soft black hump against her chest, but none of those measures made her feel any less exposed. She'd lived an independent life once, after school and before meeting John, but she realised that at some point during the past thirty years she'd come to rely on magic as much as a non-magical person could do. She spent most of the night staring at the wedding photograph that stood on John's bedside table and wondering whether she would be better off starting anew in the Muggle world. As daylight filtered through the curtains, she began crying drearily and only realised that she had fallen asleep when she awoke to the cool softness of Mr Paws nosing against her forehead.

*

If people had been loath to appear at the funeral, they had no qualms about expressing their sorrow in writing. John had known a lot of students in his thirty years as a teacher, and Arabella received owls from approximately half of them - or so it seemed - during the fortnight following his death.

Dear Mrs Figg, they invariably began, I (or Oliver and I, or Arthur and I - it was always the women who wrote, of course) was so sorry to hear of your husband's death. He was always one of my favourite professors, and he made what could have been a very dull subject (Arithmancy, of course) interesting to me.

They would then relate their favourite memory of "Professor Figg", before signing off with another expression of their grief and sympathy.

These letters eased Arabella's heart: it was wonderful to know just how many people John had touched during his life. But they did nothing to assuage her guilt. She knew that it must have occurred to every single writer that John would not be dead if he had not been married to her.

Minerva kept to her word, dropping by each evening after tea - keeping an eye on her, Arabella thought with exasperation, but she had to admit that the company probably kept her sane. On the third day, Minerva appeared wearing a rather quizzical expression, a large grey tabby in her arms, and asked if she might bring the cat inside. When Arabella acquiesced, Minerva carried her burden into the living room and set it free on the carpet, whereupon Mr Paws appeared from nowhere. The two cats sniffed each other cautiously and then settled down together in the centre of the carpet.

When Arabella returned from the kitchen bearing the tea tray, she realised that the guest cat wasn't merely fat, as she had initially assumed. "She's pregnant!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," agreed Minerva dryly. "And I rather think your Mr Paws is the father."

"What? But he's too young, surely! He's only eight months old," Arabella protested.

"Eight months is easily old enough," said Minerva. "Cats mature very quickly, you know. And the female often doesn't have a choice in the matter, although these two seem very friendly. I rather think the lady is a stray."

Arabella stared at Mr Paws, who was now submitting to being cleaned enthusiastically by his putative spouse. "She's very clean for a stray," she remarked.

"Oh, well, I've been keeping an eye on her," said Minerva. "And Mr Paws. I did actually try and persuade them both to come up to my rooms, but they didn't seem to like the castle. I got the distinct impression that Mr Paws was awaiting your return."

"I suppose we did make a fuss of him when he was a baby," Arabella admitted. "Well, if the cat really is a stray, perhaps she should stay here, at least until she has her kittens."

They were silent for a few moments, watching the cats tend to one another and sipping their tea, which Arabella had made a little stronger than usual in deference to Minerva's preferences. As they began on their second cups, Arabella summoned her courage and broached her feelings concerning John's death and her own culpability. Minerva shushed her before she'd got halfway through her sentence, however.

"Don't say it, Arabella!" she exclaimed. "Don't, truly, that's not how it was."

"But it is," insisted Arabella. "They attacked our home because of me. They - did things to us because I'm a Sq-"

"Oh, Arabella," said Minerva, and Arabella wondered irritably when people were going to stop going all sympathetic on her. "John - John was always going to attract attention of the wrong sort. He never could dissemble." Minerva's voice dropped. "He fell in love with you, yes, but rest assured, my dear, that didn't make one jot of difference to his behaviour. He'd always have spoken out against those people and done his utmost to defeat them."

Arabella sniffed, her fingers tightening around her teacup. "That may be so. But it doesn't change the fact that they wanted to make an example of him. For being married to me." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she swallowed savagely. She wanted desperately to stop being so weak, so prone to tears, but putting her suspicion into words merely brought home the horrific manner of John's death yet again.

"Arabella." Minerva's voice interrupted her thoughts, and she scrubbed away her tears before looking up at the other woman. "There's something you need to know. Have you ever heard mention of an organisation called the Order of the Phoenix?"

Arabella blinked. "I - yes. I mean, I've seen it in the papers, of course. Everyone knows about them. The work they do is wonderful!"

Minerva pressed a stray strand of hair back into her bun and then looked directly at Arabella, who had the impression of a deep breath being taken.

"John was a member of the Order. He joined us eight years ago."

"Oh," said Arabella. Her mind whirled. John had been a member of the society that was idolised by the wizarding public? She should be proud, she knew, and she was…but how could he have been involved in something so huge, so important, for eight years, without her ever suspecting anything? "And you - you're part of this organisation, too?"

"Yes," confirmed Minerva, and suddenly all those extended staff meetings fell into place for Arabella. Not staff meetings, and probably not romantic meetings either, but still, John had shared something vital with Minerva that he had kept secret from her.

"He was sworn to secrecy, of course," Minerva continued. "I'm sorry, I know it must feel hurtful to you now, but privacy is vital in our work. We have several couples who are members, but most people are unmarried, although there are always a few who are involved in relationships. When terrible things like this happen, we feel it's only fair, of course, to inform the bereaved of their partner's involvement in the Order."

"Only fair," echoed Arabella blankly. She put her teacup down carefully. "So are you saying John was killed because of his involvement with the Order of the Phoenix, and not because he was married to me?"

"I'm afraid so." Minerva looked agonised, and so uncomfortable that under other circumstances, Arabella might have laughed. As it was -

"I think you'd better leave, if you don't mind, Minerva," she said.

Minerva moved towards the doorway obediently, but turned on the threshold. "I am so terribly sorry, Arabella, really. I can only imagine how you must be feeling."

"Yes, you can," agreed Arabella, bending down to pick up Mr Paws so that she didn't have to look at the other woman. She resisted the urge to add, "since you've never been married," but the words hung in the air between them anyway.

"There are things you don't know about me, Arabella." Minerva sounded stung. "I'm not quite the hard-hearted spinster you seem to imagine."

Arabella hugged the cat to her breast and faced Minerva. "Perhaps not. But I need to think about this. Please, Minerva!" She swallowed desperately; the tears were threatening to break through and she was not going to cry again. Not in public, anyway.

Minerva nodded, blinking back tears of her own. "Please know that you can still call on me - or on Albus - if you need any help. Or anything."

So Dumbledore was involved in this, too? That was interesting, although hardly surprising. Arabella nodded in response, and then watched as Minerva turned away. A few seconds later, the front door clicked shut.

Mr Paws struggled in her arms, and Arabella relaxed her hold guiltily. "I'm sorry, my love," she said, caressing the bridge of the cat's nose until he purred in forgiveness. Still holding him, she dropped onto the sofa that Minerva had so recently vacated and remained there for a long time, rising only to make a fresh pot of tea and eventually to trudge up the stairs to bed.

*

Next day, Arabella breakfasted in thoughtful silence and then headed for the old oak sideboard where she and John had kept their photographs. The more recent ones, of holidays taken together, she discarded along with their wedding pictures. There was acknowledging your pain, and then there was giving yourself too much pain to deal with, and she knew quite well where looking at those photographs would lead.

Underneath these albums were various rather grimy books full of old-fashioned tissue paper and black card. Arabella carried these over to the sofa and began leafing through them carefully, pausing occasionally to reposition pictures that had fallen out of their tabs.

Most of images were black and white, and only a few (of other people) moved around. But they were bursting with life. Arabella stared for a long time at a photograph of herself at the age of eighteen. The girl who laughed up at her had wavy dark hair, and her mouth was voluptuous. Arabella remembered how she'd sucked at strawberries during the brief summer season, in an attempt to stain her lips with the bright juice. How long was it since she'd last worn make-up? More important than the make-up, though, was the fearlessness in her eyes. This girl had grown up knowing that she was more than a failed witch. Gazing at her, Arabella felt a tiny seed of confidence sprouting somewhere inside.

She glanced across at the cats, who were curled up beside her. The female cat (whom she'd mentally christened Mrs Paws) was asleep, but Mr Paws was purring quietly as he watched her.

"Do you think you can carry a message for me?" she asked him. He turned to lick a paw, giving no sign of having heard or understood her. Feeling slightly idiotic, she pulled herself up from the sofa and hunted for a pen and some writing paper in the old roll-top desk.

Dear Minerva, she wrote quickly, I have some questions after our conversation yesterday evening. I also wonder whether perhaps I may be able to help you and your friends. Would you be able to drop by again tonight?

Sincerely,

Arabella

Soft fur brushed past her ankles as she licked the envelope, and she looked down to see Mr Paws gazing at her expectantly. She hesitated, unbelieving, but everyone knew that cats were the best familiars, and so perhaps he really did understand what she wanted. She bent down and proffered the letter, which he took immediately in his mouth.

"For Professor McGonagall," Arabella said, still feeling silly. "It's private - nobody else must see it."

"Mowr," said Mr Paws, before jumping onto the windowsill and then out through the open window. Arabella watched him trotting along the Hogwarts road until he was out of sight, and then moved to tidy up her photograph albums. Before putting them away, she extracted the picture that had caught her attention and placed it on the table by the sofa, where she'd be able to see it. She hesitated before adding a framed photograph of her and John, taken during their trip to Norway two years earlier.

Then she sat down on the brown corduroy, her heart beating quickly, to plan what she would say. Mrs Paws half-opened her eyes as she shifted along onto Arabella's knees; and both prepared to wait.

arabella figg, mcgonagall, gen

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