*
The Apparation of Arabella Figg.
The carpet slippers slapped noisily in the stillness of several deals before dawn. Head down, concentrating, wishing to Merlin that the slippers were quieter -- But with my bunions as they are, what else could I wear? I’m not cutting holes in old trainers -- I will not sink to that level. -- she kept her eyes open.
It was good to know what you could and couldn’t sink to--good to have rules and absolutes, things which you would do, things which you must do, things you would never, ever do. Well, you have them anyway -- lots of things you’ll never ever do --everyone does. Best to know what they are, at least. Helps in the planning. Not that I planned this-- well, who could have?
With all that, there was a certain dogged inevitability about her slouching around town like this, searching in gutters, hoping she got there first although why anyone would bother is well enough beyond me.
She’d given it a great deal of thought, when Grimmauld place had seemed empty -- she hadn’t gone in, but had watched carefully for quite some time -- long enough for someone to sleep it off and get hungry, at any rate -- when the Leaky hadn’t seen him, when the dodgy little flat she knew he had in Knockturn alley had been empty, the door unlocked, but the place undisturbed -- unless someone had perfected a charm for leaving extremely even dust over a flat that more resembled a compost heap, and a rather random one at that, than a place of human habitation. Yes, a great deal of thought: she’d neither the time nor the money to trawl every ditch and midden in Britain. She’d given it that great deal of thought, and humphed, then carefully consulted both the cocoa tin that held her emergency cash and train timetables before she’d set off in a different direction.
If he’s gone into Muggle hiding I’ll never find him as long as he stays there -- but if he’d the sense to do that, I needn’t worry either. Not that she was exactly worried. Bad pennies tended, she’d noticed, to land heads up. No, he was quite possibly entirely fine, and if he wasn’t, she wouldn’t blame anyone who’d rendered him otherwise, and yet, here she was, walking from Dovetown, which was connected by rail and bus to her and yet could quite possibly have been reached faster by camel than by those conventional means of Muggle transport, walking from it towards Hogsmeade, to check the back rooms of the Hogshead and see if Aberforth had been kind: or perhaps practical. Aberforth knew enough, at least, to know that Dung might yield some names to the Death Eaters-- the barman might at least have had the decency to drag the bag of stinking filthy rags into a closet to let him sleep it off.
But perhaps he hadn’t got as far as Hogsmead -- although there was no reason he’d have been on this road-- for there was a pile of clothing, moving a bit, as if breathing, and it smelled achingly familiar. Not that all unwashed drunks don’t smell more or less the same, but still, there’s always that particular tang to him… She wouldn’t go as far as to say she’d missed it, lately, but she was rather glad that it had been enough days already for him to perhaps start to smell like himself, and that would mean fewer piles of shaggy old men to turn over in alleyways -- she’d come upon one who’d been dead already, and called the Muggle police from a phone box already on this journey -- she’d so rather not have quite that experience again. Every dead body she found reminded her of the first one, and…
She turned her thoughts away from it, and towards the lump by the side of the road. Yes, breathing. And yes, that particular scent rising even above unwashed body, and urine, and cheap firewhiskey and vomit which melded together with dust and old tobacco to comprise the perfume was Mundungus Fletcher. Carefully, she nudged it with a foot.
–Get up, you skiving coward of a sneak-thieving toad†she croaked at him. –I’m wandless, you fool, and well you know it!â€
She looked up and down the road. Nothing stirred, but then, Apparition could bring them in in an instant, with a series of cracks, and before they’d all finished showing up the first could have killed her. It was easy enough. The umbrella in her tote bag was no wand, no charm against evil. If it stayed right side out -- and that was no given -- if it stayed right side out then it might, if she were lucky, keep her dry in the rain. All other bets were off.
The gentle nudges not working, she gave him a sharp swift kick in the ribs which she immediately regretted. The carpet slippers were no match for ribs, no matter how little muscle stretched over them. He did make something of a noise, though.
–Git up, Git up you worthless bag of tosh, you stinking cess-pit of an excuse for a wizard! They could be here any time, and I’ve no wand.†No wand. He knew it, he knew it well. If he’d half an ounce of brains left in there unpickled he’d sit up, and if he’d an ounce of compassion with them he’d take her to safety as well, but she wasn’t counting on it. You couldn’t count on lightening to strike any given spot.
The noises were becoming more regular now -- a choking sound, a bit alarming, and a retching sound -- with accompanying revolting smell and finally a whispered, –That you, Figgy?â€
She stared down at him. –Of course it’s me, you idiot! Who else would bother, you thieving, stinking collection of broken promises and five day old liverwurst sandwiches?†She was leaning down, taking out one of those little silver Muggle survival blankets and wrapping it around him. –Can you Apparate?â€
She had a bad feeling. Since she’d stopped, the air had gone eerily still. It had been like that right before they appeared over her house, all those years ago, right before her father had disillusioned her and told her to run. –Get out your wand, you fool! Worthless as you are, they may still need you -- you can’t let Dumbledore down, Edward!â€
She saw his hand moving in his left pocket, and reached down to help him untangle it just as the popping sound started and she heard the wild, deranged cackle swoop down over Hogsmead. They were half under the trees, but the blanket reflected what light there was -- she felt desperate all of a sudden, and grabbed him in her arms, throwing herself over him. She yanked his wand hand free of his pocket, wand in it. What is it again? Deliberation, determination, desperation? Hearing a second series of pops she bet it all on one roll -- the roll she took with Mundungus Fletcher in her arms, concentrating on the shadowy spot next to her front door, while she held his wand arm up and called out in a firm voice, –Apparate!â€
Feathers for Figg by ProfPosky
Story Notes:
This story presupposes that Dung has tried to dry himself out at least once since Dumbledore's death - that can be seen in my story Dust He's relatively comfortable around Arabella Figg, as well - I wrote about that in Figgy Christmas You don' t really have to read either story to understand this one, but they would give you a little backstory for it.
This is ProfPosky of Gryffindor writing for the 2013 Great Hall Valentines Day Cotillion Challenge. I am no longer a mod.
Chapter Notes: Dung was obviously shaky in his recovery, or Snape wouldn't have been so successful with him - if you can accept that, the story does not really contradict book seven. I am obviously not JKR, and I am extremely grateful she lets me mess around in her literary garden.
Chapter Endnotes: I hope you enjoyed, or at least found it interesting. Reviews are greeted with weeping, tender gratitude and I reply to all of them. Please leave one - I always wonder if anyone actually read through to the end...