Mrs. Jahoda saw exactly what was going on next door at number four Privet drive. She was relatively new to the neighborhood, having lived at house number three less than six months, but anyone who paid even the slightest bit of attention would see it.

It had started that first week she had moved in. She was still ordering her things in the kitchen (after over 70 years of life, one tends to accumulate numerous useless, but no less sentimental, knickknacks). Her 15 year old grandson was out mowing her lawn. Children today have no sense of morals, but Herschelle was such a good boy; keeping good grades in school, staying out of trouble, and spending his Saturdays helping his aging Ouma1 do the lawn and gardening that she found difficult to do anymore with her arthritic knees.

Mrs. Jahoda could see Herschelle weeding the garden (the previous owners left behind some truly lovely red rhododendrons!) from the large small kitchen window. She paused in her activity as her grandson's attention seemed to be caught be something.

Herschelle watched a small boy, who had to have been only three or four, tangle with a lawn mower. The poor boy had accompanied an overweight and boisterous man to the back shed, and collected the machine. The man started it for him (the little thing could never of had the arm strength to do it himself), and left the poor dear to it. The young boy's head only just reached the handlebar and he virtually ran behind the contraption, as he was much too small to push it and so had to use the self-propel lever, which was too fast for his little legs.

Herschelle jumped up in alarm, however, when the young boy hit his head on the handlebar. The mower had been propelled over a bump which then caused the mower to dip and the handlebar to clobber the young one on the forehead. The poor dear fell back on his bottom with a jarring thud, looking slightly confused and disoriented for a moment. Herschelle, the good boy that he was, hopped the short picket fence that separated the properties to assist him.

Mrs. Jahoda, seeing the incident bustled out her back door to help. Herschelle brought the little boy back to her (unexpectedly, as, surely, the boy would rather have gone inside his own house).

"Ouma, perhaps we can get Harry, here, some tea and biscuits?" Herschelle suggested, with a hand on the back of the boy's head, "I'm going to finish mowing for him. It seems he's afraid he will get into trouble if he goes to his house." Herschelle's voice was calm and friendly, but he gave his Ouma a pointed look telling her that not all was as it appeared.

Mrs. Jahoda noted the look and smiled kindly down to the young one. "Of course, soet kind2. Come on, in!"

Herschelle lifted the boy over the knee-high fence and he followed silently as Mrs. Jahoda ambled into her house.

"Sit, sit, soet kind," she pointed the boy to a high backed wooden chair at the dining table. The boy obeyed silently, as Mrs. Jahoda prepared tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits, pouring a cup of orange juice for the lad, "What is your name again, dear?"

"I'm Harry, ma'am," he squeaked, drawing circles on the table top with his fingers. Mrs. Jahoda suppressed her urge to coo at the sight of the short little boy, whose head and shoulders were the only part that reached over the mahogany table.

"Oh, what a fine, strong name," Mrs. Jahoda smiled at Harry, setting the juice and biscuits in front of him.

"Thank You, Ma'am," he spoke in a whispered voice.

Now that young Harry sat before her, she got a better look at the boy. Short and thick black hair stuck out from his head at all angles, with an unruly cowlick in front that lifted his fringe from his face and revealed a zigzagged scar on his forehead. Wide emerald eyes peaked up at her framed in long black lashes. His lips pulled themselves into a small but proud smile, revealing a scabbed up split lip. The bruising on his forehead from the lawn mower was already darkening and swelling. The boy was far too thin and peaky, yet he was swimming in clothes that appeared to be made for a boy four times his size.

Making him an ice pack for his head and pulling out the few toys her grandchildren had left behind from their younger days, Harry and Mrs. Jahoda settled in the mostly unpacked living room, Harry kneeling on the carpeted floor and Mrs. Jahoda perched on the edge of the seat of her lumpy recliner.

He was skittish, she observed, and much too reserved for a young boy. He had gazed up at her in confusion and wonder when she had presented a little stuffed blue bear her eldest granddaughter Helen had named Fuzzy.  He hugged the bear to him tightly, as if afraid it would be snatched from him, rocking it in his arms and gazing down at it reverently while they spent the next hour in quiet conversation, or as much of a conversation one could have with such a shy young one.

She had found out that he was four years old, though he looked quite a bit younger, and she wondered how he had managed to mow even the little piece of the lawn that he had. She had sussed out that he did all of the yard work and any other chore that he was even remotely physically able to do. He lived with his aunt, uncle, and their son Dudders (what a dreadful name!), and he had never had a biscuit in his life, but let her know that they were "really yummy".

She was concerned, to say the least. It was with a heavy heart and a strange longing to grab the boy up in a hug, that she finally released him to go home, when Herschelle returned from the chore.

The following months, her concern only grew. She could often hear that great oaf of a man, Vernon Dursley coming home in the evenings and start bellowing, sounding like the devil himself, and stomping around like a herd of elephants. The worst was when she could actually hear that man hurt the boy, sound of something thumping against the wall or being thrown to the floor, slaps ringing out in the silence of the quiet neighborhood, or the crack of a belt landing on flesh.

One day, two months later, she could have sworn she heard the boy being thrown down the stairs. That was when she finally called the authorities* for the first time. Nothing ever came of the visits. She called after every time she saw the boy being man-handled or smacked around. After the first visit that family seemed to grow bolder, knowing that they could get away with it, they would not even try to hide the abuse, doing it out in the open for just anyone to see. 

She had always tried to have Harry over for a meal on the weekends, when Herschelle mowed the law for him, but after that first time the people went to check in on him, he was not allowed to. That did not stop her from documenting at much as she could. Every incidence, she wrote down, and when she could, she secretly took pictures. She stayed hopeful, sure that one day someone would decide to care for the boy and come get him. On that day, she would be ready.

 She knew who was responsible for keeping him away from her house; Petunia Dursley. The woman was a menace. From the first time Mrs. Jahoda had joined the other neighborhood women for their weekly game of cribbage, she had learned that the woman was most unpleasant.

The woman prided herself on being normal. Mrs. Jahoda had seen enough of her brand of "normal" when she was a young Jewish woman living in Nazi sympathizing South Africa. Mrs. Dursley rejected anything that smacked of "different", from foreign foods to foreign people, something Mrs. Jahoda could personally attest to. She certainly did not miss the pinched look the woman had whenever she showed up for their games, her face disapproving and nose crinkled as if someone had forgotten to take the rubbish out on a hot summer day.

That vile family walked around with their heads in the air, thinking themselves all that is ordinary and good. The horse faced woman always appeared with lips pursed in disapproval, pearls neat and shiny around her too long neck, dressed in clothes that were neat and pressed to within an inch of its life, in cuts that were conservative and colors that were not too ostentatious. 

Her lump of a husband marched around as if he were a lord, pretending to lead the life of a successful businessman instead of the director of a small town manufacturing company. He spoke ridiculously loud, no matter what he said or who he said it too, and had the manners of wild boar. At first, he had pretended to be the kindly neighbor, waving over the fence and shouting greetings after, as if he hadn't just got done beating his nephew inside. After a few weeks of Mrs. Jahoda blatantly and unapologetically ignoring the beast, he finally got the message and stopped bothering.

The bully of a son was, impossibly, even worse. He roamed the block with his gang of fellow five and six year olds, terrorizing the local cats and most especially, young Harry. Who let a five year old loose on the streets anyway?

Normal, indeed!

They were the very definition of "normal", "typical", "ordinary", yet their house was a warzone, or Mrs. Jahoda thought more appropriately, a hostile dictatorship. It was the family versus that poor little boy. Even now she could often look out her kitchen window and see the soet kind working away in the garden or painting the fence the same shade of blinding white for the fourth time in a month.

She ached to care for the boy. Each time she saw him, waving to him through the window and eliciting a rare smile from the lad, there was a new injury or a new bruise. He was but skin and bones, something that pulled painfully at her mothering heart.

The last straw came one sunny August weekend. Once again, little Harry was outside, raking grass clippings with a large rake that was much too big to of been much use to the boy, when that blasted man came stomping out, already turning purple with rage. Seeing this, Mrs. Jahoda snatched up her camera from the window sill and watched, the spike of terror that always cut through her when she saw the child suffer, making itself known.

 Dursley screeched at soet Harry, his mustache bristling and his words already so slurred by drink (it was only just three in the evening!) that they were completely unintelligible.  Harry dropped the rake and hunched in on himself, preparing to be hit. The elephantine man deftly, especially for one so inebriated, picked up the rake and used the handle to beat the boy.

Harry screamed and cried as blow after blow of the wooden handle landed on his skinny body. A crack rang out and the blood curdling scream of pain that Harry let out, stamped out any hope that it was only the handle of the rake breaking.

"Shut up, you little freak!" Dursley slurred, stumbling forward to grab the boy by the hair and hauling him toward the house. The precious boy staggered after the man, led by his hair, his arm hanging at an unnatural angle, whimpering in pain and fear as quiet as he could.

Mrs. Jahoda stood, trembling in shock and with the force of her fury. Tears streamed down her face. She had never witnessed such brutality, and to hurt such a wonderful little boy so, was such a tragedy.

This ends now!

Whipping the tears from her face, she grabbed her camera and the prints of the pictures she had been taking for the past four and a half months, as well as her list of times she saw them harm the boy and shoved it all in her purse. In moments she had dashed out of her house and limped her way down the block  and around to Magnolia Crescent to one of the women who had befriended her at the cribbage games, Arabella Figg.

Ringing the door bell, she stood on the stoop, crowded with hanging vines and overgrown weeds, ringing her hands in agitation. Mrs. Figg answered the door, looking much as she always did; fly away grey hair escaping the black hairnet, old worn apron over a faded floral print dress, and tartan carpet slippers. She took one look at her visitor and grew concerned.

"Why, Maria, what brings you here? Come in, come in! Are you alright dear?" the friendly woman asked as she shuffled her way to the living room. She did not look like much, certainly far from the Dursley's ideal of "normal", but Mrs. Jahoda would take Arabella's welcoming aura and pleasant demeanor over those "typical", "unremarkable", "average" Dursleys any day.

"Oh, Arabella, it's awful! You've got to help," Mrs. Jahoda cried, her Afrikaans accent growing stronger in her distress.

"Sit, dear, of course I will help! What's wrong?" Arabella led the distraught woman to her lumpy couch. Mrs. Jahoda took no notice of the hair covered furniture or the multitude of cats that hid in every corner.

"It's that dear boy, Harry, the neighbor boy," Mrs. Jahoda sniffled, kindly accepting a worn but clean handkerchief from Mrs. Figg, "I have tried and tried to help that poor boy, but no one will listen to me anymore."

Mrs. Figg's eyes grey wide behind her thick glasses. "What do you mean? What's wrong with him?"

"Those... those people he lives with beat him. Oh they hurt him something awful. I have been calling the authorities on them, but no one ever takes that boy out of the house!" Mrs. Jahoda cried.

"S-surely, it can't be all that bad?" though her tone suggested she feared that it was.

"Not that bad? Arabella, I just watched that boy being beaten with a rake handle before my very eyes! I have been collecting evidence for months now, in the hopes that someone will take it seriously." Mrs. Jahoda took out all of the papers and pictures from her purse and spread them across Mrs. Figg's scratched and ring stained coffee table.

Arabella looked horrified, from what Mrs. Jahoda could tell. As well she should be. The amount of evidence was staggering.

"Oh, Maria...," she whispered, picking up one of the pieces of paper full of documented incidents Mrs. Jahoda witnessed from her kitchen window, "I-I never knew! They drop the boy off here whenever they go on vacation, so I knew they held no love for the boy, but I never thought it was this bad! Oh, Harry!"

Suddenly, her face hardened and her eyes narrowed behind the thick lenses. "I will help. I know just who to contact about this. You leave all this with me and don't you worry about a thing, dear. That boy will be out of that house by this evening."

Mrs. Jahoda sighed in relief. Finally someone would help that precious little boy.

~*~

Severus sighed as he heard the distinctive flare of the Floo in the sitting room. He set his quill down with a snap on his desk, where he had been working on the course outline for the quickly approaching new school year. The Ministry had recently changed the requirements for the Potions OWL and NEWT tests, so he had had to change his fifth and seventh year course schedules to accommodate them. With a sigh, he exited his study and made his way to see who it was who had decided it was a good idea to disturb his summer.

"Professor Snape?" a woman's voice called from the fire place. She let out a squeak when she caught sight of the imposing sight of the Potion's Master.

"Mrs. Figg," Severus barely remembered the old woman's name, having met her only once, a few years back when he first joined the Order. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh thank goodness your there! I was wondering if you could assist me. It's about Harry Potter."

Severus' immediate reaction was to see red. Potter?! If he never heard that name again it would be too soon!

"I have and want nothing to do with the Potter brat! Why don't you go bother Albus about him?" he barked.

"Please, Professor, I have tried. He is not in his office. The situation is desperate and the boy must be removed immediately, otherwise I would not bother you," the woman pleaded.

Severus paused at this. "Desperate? What's the matter with the boy? He didn't get his way and now he's throwing a Dark Lord sized tantrum?" he questioned sarcastically, raising an eyebrow.

"What? No," Mrs. Figg shook her head frantically, stirring some of the ashes beside her head, "one of their neighbors has come to me, begging for help. It seems she has witnessed his family beating him multiple times. She fears that he may be seriously hurt this time."

Severus stiffened. Beaten? If there is one thing Severus Snape could not abide by it was the abuse of children. He himself had suffered under a tyrannical father and a mother too absorbed in self-pity to do anything about it; he could not bear to know of a child stuck in a similar situation. In the three years he had been teaching at Hogwarts, he had become known as the teacher to go to when one's home life was inadequate.

Still he found it hard to believe that the son of James Potter could be anything other than a pampered brat, just like his father.

"Please Professor, could you just check up on him?" Mrs. Figg begged.

Severus sighed, feeling very put upon and irritated. "Very well. May I come through?"

He flooed through and landed in Mrs. Figg's house. Severus sneered at one of the cats that dared to sniff at his robes. Quickly obtaining directions to the house, he rushed out of the place, sure that he would smell like cats the rest of the evening.

Approaching house number four on Privet Drive, Severus was reminded of his home town, Weaverston. Back in the 60's and, when the town was still a successful manufacturing town, it looked very much like this little piece of suburban Surrey. All except for Spinner's End, the street his family lived on, and where he still lived sometimes during the summer. That street had been old and partially abandoned, even before the local textile mill moved out of town, causing most of its inhabitants to follow.

Any further thoughts of the identical row of houses and their identical, orderly lawns was cut off by the sound of furious screaming from inside. Severus could hear a man roaring from where he stood in the street, and it instantly caused both annoyance and the first inkling of doubt and worry to spike through him.

He quickly walked up the short drive to the front door and rapped loudly. The yelling of the man stopped abruptly and Severus raised an eyebrow at the door when he heard the man growl, a distinct thunk, and a door slamming closed.

Thunderous footsteps could be heard nearing the door and it swung open. Severus coolly took in the appearance of the sweaty, beefy man in front of him. The man, who he assumed was Mr. Dursley, was breathing hard, as if he had just taken a run around the block, and was glaring malevolently at him.

"What do you want?" he yelled, far too loud for speaking to a man who was standing, at most, two feet away from him.

Severus' face fell into his usual scowl at the rude treatment.

"I am here to enquire as to the welfare of Harry Potter," he sneered.

Dursley paled, before his face immediately darkened again. He bared his teeth and greatly reminded Severus of a rabid bulldog.

"We don't know any Harry Potter!" he yelled and tried to slam the door closed in Severus' face. Severus was ready for him, however, and stopped the door before it could be closed.

"Excuse me, sir, but judging from the description I was given of a purple faced, walrus-shaped, philistine, trumpeting more braggadocio and violence than wit, I assume I am correct in thinking that you are indeed Mr. Vernon Dursley. Therefore, unless you have done something nefarious to the Potter boy, he is indeed here," Snape said, holding back his growing anger by a thread and using the fact that he was a good six inches taller than the man, to loom over him in intimidation.

Vernon sputtered, unsure what exactly the dark man had said, but knowing he didn't like the tone. His only response was a screeched "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

Severus, seeing that nothing he could say would get through the man's undoubtedly thick head, took action instead. He dropped his wand from where it was hidden up his sleeve and pointed it between the man's mean blue eyes. They widened in fear as Petunia, who had come out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, to see what all the fuss was about, let out a shriek that had the cheap glass trinkets on the mantel threatening to shatter on protest.

Vernon paled and shuffled back into the small entryway, making room for Severus to enter, and raising his hands to the side of his chest with his palms out in a gesture of surrender.

"Now, I will ask you again, Dursley, Where. Is. Potter?" he snared in a low and dangerous voice.

Trembling, now, so hard his double chin wobbled, he pointed to the staircase with a meaty finger. "The Brat's in there."

Severus looked at the staircase in confusion before disgusted understanding dawned on him. He took in the small door under the stairs, the white door marred by black scrape marks around a large hinge and padlock, evidence of its frequent use.

They couldn't have.

 Never removing his wand from Dursley's direction, he advanced to the small door. Slowly opening it, he drew a sharp breath.

Two very wide, bright green eyes looked back at him from the shadowed "room". The messy haired boy sat on top of a thin cushion, one that looked like it had once been fitted on a lawn chair. He appeared to be drowning in a set of large thread-bare clothes and a frayed and stained blue blanket had been wrapped around him. He held it over his shoulders and clutched it to his chest with one hand, while he cradled his other arm in his lap. He shivered and what little of his face that was not covered in purple and green bruising was flushed. Sweat beaded on his scarred forehead and upper lip, indicating a fever had set in. Severus coughed at the pungent smell of human waste, emanating from a bucket in the corner, and noxious cleaning products, which he could see was stored on the cupboard shelves, inches from the boy's head.

Severus' head whirled. Those very familiar eyes took his breath away. It had not been so long ago that he had lost Lily forever, and those eyes reignited the flame of grief that had only just begun to burn down to glowing embers of remembered pain.

For the first time, it really hit him, he finally fully understood; this was Lilly's boy. Yes, he was the spawn of that pompous idiot Potter, but he was also a part of Lily. How could he have let this happen to Lily's son? He had sworn on his magic to protect the boy in recompense for inadvertently getting her killed.

The boy was supposed to be safe, nestled away from the wizarding world with his muggle family; with Lily's sister... He turned his head to look at the pale pinched face of the boy's aunt. Petunia... If he had not been more concerned about what the huffing ignoramus he held at wand point would do, he would have closed his eyes in self- castigating ire. He had never given it a second thought to the fact that the boy had been shipped off to "Lily's sister", but now he was cruelly reminded that "Lily's sister" equaled Petunia Evans and just how bad of an idea that was.

He remembered well the thin, sour faced older sister to the girl he had befriended back in Weaverston. Even then she had shown her jealousy fueled hatred of magic with callous words and mean-spirited deeds. He remembered days when Lilly had come to the their secret meeting place, the little fort they had made in the woods behind the neighborhood park, upset and in tears, after her sister had said or done something hurtful. Freak, he remembered she often said. Petunia had called her The Freak.

He gave the woman his most venomous glare, one that promised a slow and painful death.

Harry watched the man who crouched in the doorway of his cupboard. He had been relieved at the sound of the knock at the door, as he silently accepted the slaps and cuffs about his head from his uncle, curled in on himself, trying to protect his broken arm. It had given him a break from his uncle and hopefully he would for forget he was there for a while after that.

He was surprised when he heard the man ask for him, though it had been happening more and more often lately. He had heard Uncle Vernon call them the "‘thorities" and they always came and asked if he was being treated well. He didn't think he was, but he knew he would be hit extra hard if he said so in front of his family.

This man, however, seemed different. Uncle Vernon did not scare him, like he did the others, in fact it sounded like Uncle was scared of him! He wasn't sure he wanted to meet a man that was so scary he scared even the scariest man he knew. Who knew what the man would do to him!

Harry looked up warily as the man opened the door to his cupboard. The man looked even scarier than he sounded, and for minute he felt panic begin to overwhelm him. He was soothed however, as something seemed to wash over him. It felt like waves made of wind, yet he did not feel it on his skin, he felt it in his tummy and chest. The man felt strangely familiar and good; though he was sure he had never met the man.

He looked at Harry in shock for moment. Harry hunched, worried he had done something wrong, though he had no idea what it could have been as he only just set eyes on the man, but then he looked to the side, where he had heard Aunt ‘Tunia scream, and he made the angriest face he had ever seen (and harry had seen Uncle Vernon make some very angry faces)!

"You dare! You dare, Petunia Evans, to treat your sister's son, you own family, like this?!" the man growled at her.

"Wha- how do you know me?" Aunt ‘Tunia asked

"What, don't recognize me, Tuney? I should not be surprised. We are all faceless ‘freaks' to you," the mean looking man said. He stood up and faced her, leaving Harry with only a view of the backs of his knees, as he put his back to the wall.

Aunt ‘Tunia made a choking noise. "You!" she screeched in a voice full of meanness that Harry was very familiar with. He could clearly imagine the look on her face, all twisted and ugly, like she was having a face-making contest with herself, as he had seen Dudley and his friends do one time. "You're that disgusting Snape boy that lived on Spinner's End! Get out of my house!"

"Don't worry Tuney, I don't want to be here anymore than you do," the man turned and squatted back down, and spoke to Harry. "Come out here, Pot- er, Harry. We are leaving"

Harry knew better than to say anything to that, though his trembling increased as his panic returned. What was the man going to do to him? Uncle Vernon had always said that if he was a bad boy, they would send him to an orphanage, where they would keep him in a cage like the hamster Dudley had kept in his room for a month before he tired of it and let it starve to death.

As quickly as he could, he crawled out of the cupboard. He winced at the pain in his arm and chest, and stood shakily beside the man. He squeaked in surprise, however, when the man gently picked him up and settled him in his arms and braced him securely over his thighs. That good, familiar feeling washed over him again, feeling like it was covering him like a warm blanket. He slumped wearily in the man's arms, resting his head on his shoulder and hiding his face in his neck. The spicy scent of the man tickled his nose and he rubbed at it sleepily with his uninjured fist.

Severus did not miss the wince as the boy climbed out of that hole, and knew that any movement would only cause him more pain. He gathered the boy up, careful not to squeeze his ribs, and sat him on one of his arms. He had had to blank his face and take deep breaths to control his utter outrage when he saw the boy's arm, the forearm clearly broken and hanging at an unnatural angle. He was glad when the boy relaxed; soothed by the touch of magic, a sensation the boy had probably been starved of since that fateful night when he had been banished from the wizarding world.

"Fine! Take the little freak," Mr. Dursley roared, "You'll learn what a little monster he is, but don't think you bring him back here when you're tired of him!"

Severus growled under his breath, endeavoring to leave as fast as he could, so he would not be tempted to kill the muggles.

 "And tell that Bumblydore... Bimbledore... Diddlemore... whatever that freak's blasted name is, that I still want that monthly stipend for taking him in. It will take quite a lot of compensation for what we have had to put up with since we took in the little snot rag!" Dursley hollered after him as they crossed the threshold.

Severus paused and snarled over his shoulder, "Don't worry, Dursley, I will be sure to personally make sure you get exactly what you deserve."

Behind him, Vernon harrumphed in satisfaction, missing the threat implied in his words entirely, while Petunia paled and had to steady herself on the back of a chair.

Severus could not get out of the place fast enough and walked down the drive with long strides.

"Harry! Oh, Harry dear!" an old woman with meticulously quaffed grey hair and dressed in a simple dress patterned with large pink flowers, stood on the front stoop of house number three next door, which was differentiated from number four and number two on either side, only by the yellow leaved shrubs growing under the front window. When Severus paused and turned around, she hobbled over to the pair of wizards. Severus scowled at being slowed down, ready to get the hell out of the neighborhood before he was tempted to go back and make good on his threat. Harry sat up, twisting to see the woman who had been calling out to him.

Mrs. Jahoda ambled down the road as fast as she could toward the tall man who held Harry. As she approached, the man scowled at her but kept silent. "Have you come to help little Harry? Are you taking him away for good?"

Severus jerked his head in a nod.

"Oh, thank goodness! You are an angel! I have called and called, but no one seems to have the sense to get him away from those... those... fiends!" directing her gaze at the young boy looking at her meekly, she continued, "Now Harry, you be a good boy. Things are going to be better now, ok? Here take Fuzzy here with you," she said, handing the boy the small blue teddy bear he had loved to hold when over her house, "You don't want him to get lonely without you to play with him, do you?

Harry's battered face bloomed with a small shy smile. "Thank you," he whispered.

Mrs. Jahoda wiped away a stray tear from her wrinkled cheek and smiled back. "Good bye, soet kind. Come and visit me sometime, eh? I will stock up on a whole box of chocolate biscuits just for you."

Severus bowed his head in salutation and turned to make his way back down Privet Drive toward Magnolia Crescent where Mrs. Figg resided. From there he would take the boy to Hogwarts and hopefully on to a new and more loving home.