The Dark Witch

P.O.V – Becky Sinclair

I will never look at another cat again as long as I live. I thought adamantly to myself as I stared at, what seemed to be, the millionth picture of one of Mrs. Figg’s many cats. Or, sorry, Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, Tufty, and several other, now deceased, felines.

Sighing heavily, I shut the, rather large, photo album as I raised my head to look around Mrs. Figg’s living room. Even after living here for the past month or so, I still find it hard to believe that someone could live this way. My nose twitched at the combined smells of cats and cabbage. I’ll never get used to that horrible scent, I thought, shaking my head and placing the photo album beside me on the large, fur coated, pink couch.

Mrs. Figg’s taste in furniture was truly appalling, I couldn’t help but think for the thousandth time, eyeing the mismatched pieces in the room. A green rocking chair and a purple throw rug, seriously? To go along with a pink couch and a blue loveseat? When was the last time this woman had a cat scan? I couldn’t help it, at that last thought I had to suppress a giggle. This nutty woman did love her cats.

A large ball of fur began to float down, unceremoniously, from the ceiling fan, I cringed inwardly. More cat fur, and orange too. Must be Tufty’s.

My eyes widened and my mouth fell open. Tell me I didn’t just think that. Please someone tell me. I thought rapidly, horrified at myself. Shaking my head to clear those pesky thoughts away, I reached out for the floating fur, “I beginning to think like her.” I said softly to myself, grasping the fur and flinging it to the top of a fur filled trashcan, “A cat crazed maniac.”

Abruptly, I stood up. I have to get out of this house, I thought determinedly. I refuse to become Mrs. Figg the second. I looked to my right to eye Mrs. Figg’s bedroom door, behind which she was supposedly taking a nap with her four cats. Ever since Mrs. Lankins had dropped me off here, at the orders of some Dumblydore or other, Mrs. Figg has made it her mission to not let me step an inch outside of the house.

Apparently, it’s too dangerous. Yeah, right.

I saw the neighborhood for about a span of two seconds (I officially hate apparition. I spent about an hour throwing up after our arrival) and it looked beyond normal. Granted, I’m here, so it’s no longer completely average, but, come on, it’s Little Whinging. Safe as houses.

Cautiously, I took a step forward, scanning the living room for signs of one of Mrs. Figg’s perceptive cats. Sure, I knew where they were supposed to be, with Mrs. Figg, but these annoying things had a habit of turning up right at the worst possible moment. They had already prevented my “escape” from the house two times prior. I don’t get what their problem is.

I mean, it’s not like I’m about to make a break for it. I’m only planning on stepping outside for a minute. Or two. Get some fresh air and come right back. I’m not going to knock over a gas station or get attacked by those creepy sounding dementor something or others. I’m not Harry Potter. Not that he ever knocked over a gas station or anything.

I slowly began to make my way towards the front door. I mean, “the boy who lived”, “the chosen one”, blah blah blah, he sounds like a saint. I took one last glimpse at Mrs. Figg’s bedroom door. Completely the opposite of me, I certainly have no goody two shoes illusions of myself. Not after everything I’ve done. Plus, it’s hard to say you’re a saint when you’re insane…or maybe it’s easier, hmm.

I turned to face the front door again, taking a final step forward, and placing my hand on the handle. Everything’s going to be fine, I thought calmly to myself. You’re just getting a breath of fresh air. That’s all. I turned the handle and slowly pulled open the door. A blast of warm summer air hitting me in the face, perhaps more than a couple of minutes, I thought happily stepping outside. Ignorant of the ginger cat glaring at my back.