Chapter Two—Arabella Figg

He kicked my Cleopatra, poor dear; she’s getting older now and is too slow to have clawed him properly for it. How like a Death Eater to prey on someone weaker than himself. Just because he claims he no longer tortures Muggles doesn’t mean that he’s reformed. You can tell a man by the way he treats animals as well as humans, and Snape doesn’t treat either particularly well.

“You’re a member?” I remember him asking me snidely.

“Yes,” I snapped back.

“Aren’t you a squib? What is it exactly that you do?” He seemed determined to humiliate me, but little does he know that I accepted my abilities long ago. I may not have magic but my powers of observation are keen, and I can cook a mean meatloaf. I make myself useful enough.

“I provide headquarters. This is my house you are standing in and my cats you’re kicking.” I answered. He had enough sense to look chagrined about Cleopatra, but he didn’t apologize.

“I see.” But I could see that he didn’t, not really anyway. So I explained it to him.

“Albus approached me a couple of months after he put together this little group. ‘We need a place to plot and plan. Somewhere Tom will never suspect,’ he told me. Well, he wouldn’t suspect a squib now would he? Most wizards don’t want much to do with us, like they don’t know how to act around us. My own family always treated me like I had a terminal disease. I always wanted to shout at them I was alright, just a little put out at their behavior.” He coughed and I realized that I had gotten off topic. I’m so used to talking to my cats that I forget that humans aren’t as patient, they don’t listen nearly as well.

“Anyway, the fact of the matter is that I host headquarters, keep my ears tuned to the happenings in the Muggle world, and I can cook up a storm. Albus loves my meatloaf, so does Dedalus.” I almost offered him some, but I was still upset about him kicking my darling and of his tone of voice when he questioned me. I decided instead to beat him at his own game.

“You’re a member?” I asked in the same snide tone he had used with me.

“Yes,” he said in a patronizing manner.

“Aren’t you a Death Eater? What exactly do you do?”

“I gather information,” he told me rather curtly.

“Then we both serve in our unique capacities, I say. Neither one of is the ideal candidate for membership in the Order of the Phoenix but they wouldn’t be able to function without us. Everyone contributes what they are able. Don’t forget that.” And with that, I wiggled my finger at him before I turned on my heel and headed back into the kitchen. I can’t be sure but I think I might have heard a whispered ‘Yes ma’am,’ but I doubt it.