The Advanced Advanced Guard
“What?” says Harry blankly.
“And who’re you?” She demands, rounding on the strange man accompanying him. Harry would like to know, too, actually.
He’s got ears that stick out significantly on either side of his sharp face, making him look a bit like a bug. He’s tall and thin enough to be a stick insect, anyway. His hair is either black or deep brown, it’s hard to say in the low light, and it falls in mesmerizing haphazard waves over his brow. He’s wearing an odd mix of things- a brown leather jacket, a red scarf despite the summer heat, impossibly wrinkled trousers with a stain on one cuff and well-to-do pointed brown shoes like a professor might wear, all of which he slouches into as if to make himself smaller. His glasses are comically fogged from Dementor’s breath, but he makes no move to clean them. His head bobs this way and that animatedly without him thinking about it, and his mouth moves a lot before he says anything.
“Myron! I’m Myron. Uh, Emrys,” he stammers apologetically in the strangest accent Harry’s ever heard, extending his hand for her to shake, bent over nearly double. “I’m with him, and, Dumbledore, and…. them.”
Harry narrows his eyes. Dumbledore’s never mentioned a Myron Emrys before. And what would he be doing here, now? But it’s good enough for Mrs. Figg.
“He left!” She cries, wringing her hands. “Left to see someone about a batch of cauldrons that fell off the back of a broom! I told him I’d flay him alive if he went, and now look! Dementors! It’s just lucky I put Mr. Tibbies on the case! But we haven’t got time to stand around! Hurry, now, we’ve got to get you back! You too, I suppose. Oh, the trouble this is going to cause! I will kill him!”
“But —” The revelation that his batty old cat-obsessed neighbor knows what dementors are is almost as big a shock to Harry as meeting two of them down an alleyway. “You’re — you’re a witch?”
“I’m a Squib, as Mundungus knows full well, so how on earth was I supposed to help you fight off dementors? He left you completely without cover when I warned him —”
“This bloke Mundungus has been following me? Hang on — it was him! He Disapparated from the front of my house!”
“That’s why I’m here,” Myron inputs unhelpfully.
“Yes, yes, yes, but I didn’t know that, did I? Luckily I’d stationed Mr. Tibbies under a car just in case, and Mr. Tibbies came and warned me, but by the time I got to your house you’d gone — and now — oh, what’s Dumbledore go- ing to say? You!” she shrieked at Dudley, still supine on the alley floor. “Get your fat bottom off the ground, quick!”
“Oh, was that your cat I met before? He’s quite the gentleman,” Myron notes as if they’re having tea.
“You know Dumbledore?” Harry snaps, steamrolling over him. Much more important revelations are taking place right now, he thinks.
“Of course I know Dumbledore, who doesn’t know Dumbledore? But come on — I’ll be no help if they come back, I’ve never so much as Transfigured a teabag —”
She stoops down clumsily, careful of her hideous flowered skirts, seizes one of Dudley’s massive arms in her wizened hands, and tugs with all she has. It’s not much.
“Get up, you useless lump, get up!”
Dudley is unresponsive but for his vacant trembling.
“Oh, right, sorry,” Myron leaps in again, fumbling for his wand and pulling Dudley into a stance more upright than he’s ever worn in his life with a wordless spell. Mrs. Figg only just manages to avoid falling back onto her bum, having not been warned. “Sh- sorry. Sorry,” he bumbles again. She throws an impatient dismissive wave his way.
“Hurry up!” shrieks Mrs. Figg hysterically.
And so that’s how they go, their weird little trio (and Dudley). Harry’s cousin shuffles along automatically without really noticing, and almost certainly not of his own accord, pale face unattractively beaded with sweat and body odour near unbearable. Harry’s hesitant to let this new character out of his sight, so he brings up the rear, and they all follow Mrs. Figg, anxiously poking around corners and waving them on unnecessarily. She’s even shorter than Harry. Emrys, who’s about twice her height, looks quite funny scampering after her.
“Keep your wand out,” she hisses as they enter Wisteria Walk. “Never mind the Statute of Secrecy now, there’s going to be hell to pay anyway, we might as well be hanged for a dragon as an egg. Talk about the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery . . . This was exactly what Dumbledore was afraid of — what’s that at the end of the street? Oh, it’s just Mr. Prentice. . . . Don’t put your wand away, boy, don’t I keep telling you I’m no use?”
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re a Squib?” Harry shoots back. “All those times I came round your house — why didn’t you say anything?”
“Dumbledore’s orders. I was to keep an eye on you but not say anything, you were too young. I’m sorry I gave you such a miserable time, but the Dursleys would never have let you come if they’d thought you enjoyed it. It wasn’t easy, you know. . . . But oh my word,” she sighs tragically, wringing her hands once more, “when Dumbledore hears about this — how could Mundungus have left, he was supposed to be on duty until midnight — where is he? How am I going to tell Dumbledore what’s happened, I can’t Apparate —”
“I’ve got an owl, you can borrow her,” Harry offers.
“No, Harry, I’m afraid that’s a little too slow for our current situation. But don’t worry. You were fully within your rights to defend yourself. As things stand now, the Ministry has no right to your wand or your status as a student at Hogwarts, not without a trial.”
Harry starts, having not thought of any of that. “They should be focussed on what dementors were doing floating around Wisteria Walk, surely?”
“Oh my dear, I wish it were so but I’m afraid —“ Mrs. Figg is interrupted by the sharp crack of apparation and the pungent smell of stale drink and tobacco. She immediately rounds in the source. “MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER, I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!”
The ragged huddle of dirty clothing she’s exploding at turns out to be an equally ragged man. His ginger scruff is unkempt and matches his long straggly hair, and his baggy bloodshot eyes give him the doleful look of a basset hound. Clutched in his grimy hands is a silvery length of fabric that could only be an invisibility cloak.
“ ’S’ up, Figgy?” he grins. He’s missing a few teeth.He looks pointedly at Dudley and Myron, and finally Harry. “What ’appened to staying undercover?”
“I’ll give you undercover!” screeches Mrs. Figg in something like a battle cry. “Dementors, you useless, skiving sneak thief!”
“Dementors?” repeats Mundungus, aghast. “Dementors here?”
“Yes, here, you worthless pile of bat droppings, here!” She screams. “Dementors attacking the boy on your watch!”
“Blimey,” The filthy little man breathes weakly, looking from Mrs. Figg to Harry and back again. “Blimey, I . . .”
“And you off buying stolen cauldrons! Didn’t I tell you not to go? Didn’t I?!”
“I — well, I —” Mundungus looked deeply uncomfortable. “It . . . it was a very good—“
“It was a very good thing Myron was here, isn’t it? And now, you no-good little worm, you’re going to snap yourself straight to Dumbledore and explain to him JUST WHAT’S HAPPENED! GO!”
Mrs. Figg raises the arm from which her string bag dangles and gives Mundungus a couple of hearty whacks around the face and neck with it; judging by the clanking noise it makes it’s full of cat food.
“Ouch — gerroff — gerroff, you mad old— I’m going!”
There’s another mighty crack, and the next whack never makes contact. Mrs. Figg nearly tumbles over herself again with the momentum.
“I hope Dumbledore murders him!” she snarls. “Now come on, what are you waiting for, Christmas?”
Both Myron and Harry fly awkwardly back into motion.
“I’ll take you to the door,” says Mrs. Figg as they turn into Privet Drive. “Oh my word, what a catastrophe . . . and you had to fight them off yourself . . . and Dumbledore said we were to keep you from doing magic at all costs. . . . Well, it’s no good crying over spilled potion, I suppose . . . but the cat’s among the pixies now . . .”
“So,” Harry snaps with a sideways look at Myron Emrys, “Dumbledore’s been having me followed?”
“Of course he has,” Mrs. Figg shoots back impatiently. “Did you expect him to let you wander around on your own after what happened in June? Good Lord, boy, they told me you were intelligent. . . . Right . . . get inside and stay there,” she orders as they reach number four. “I expect someone will be in touch with you soon enough.”
“What are you going to do?” asks Harry quickly.
“I’m going straight home,” Mrs. Figg says, staring around the dark street and shuddering, and it occurs to him that she has just been in the presence of dementors. “I’ll need to wait for more instructions. Just stay in the house. Good night.”
Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Myron’s already one step ahead of him.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Figg, but he can’t stay with the Dursleys, they’ll skin him alive for the state their son’s in— they will, won’t they?” He asks Harry quickly, receiving and enthusiastic nod back. “And what’s more, I can’t stay to watch him then. He can’t go back. There’s got to be- can we trouble you? Just for the night? No, I suppose not. But- no. No. And if I- of course not. Silly. Okay, let me just think for a second.”
The two of them watch the man stand there and make funny faces to himself for a good forty seconds before he cries something triumphant in a strange language and whirls around to point at them with a winning face.
“Mrs. Figg, you’ve been lovely. Thank you. Alright Harry, off we pop,” and he’s grabbed Harry’s hand before Harry’s realized and suddenly he’s somewhere else.
Harry blinks and stumbles, spinning around in an alarmed circle. Bare walls, bare ceilings, bare floors. A mattress stuffed into the corner on the floor. Blank parchment on the desk. An empty owl cage.
His room.
Suddenly he hears a din from downstairs and his heart sinks as all of his dread and attention turns to that. A din downstairs? Nothing good could come of it. Whatever’s wrong, Harry will suffer for it.
This is what keeps him from storming out of his room and demanding answers. However he got here takes a backseat to familiar instinctual fear coupled with absolute certainty that he’s in trouble with the Dursleys. Harry would rather he never leave this room, actually, so he never has to face what’s on the other side of it.
The inevitable does tire of taunting him eventually, though, and Harry’s heart speeds up as Vernon Dursley’s irate footsteps shake the stairs. Harry’s eyes snap around his room, double checking his exits and advantages.
Then the door’s being yanked open and his uncle’s strangled purple face appears- thank Merlin, it’s about all of him that fits in the doorway. He reels back as soon as he sees Harry there, though, blinking just as confusedly back. He wasn’t expecting him to be here.
“HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN IN HERE?!” He roars. The bird cage rattles.
“Forty minutes,” Harry shoots back bravely. You can’t show fear to Uncle Vernon.
“Yooouuu,” he fumed, spittle flying from his moustache. “If you did anything to Dudley…”
“Dudley?” Harry asks, and if no one ever believes his lies again, let Vernon believe this one. “What’s happened?”
And Vernon slams the door.
Harry received two owls in the next fifteen minutes. The first is written in blotchy black ink by Arthur Weasley’s hand.
Harry —
Dumbledore’s just arrived at the Ministry, and he’s trying to sort it all out. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE’S HOUSE. DO NOT DO ANY MORE MAGIC. DO NOT SURRENDER YOUR WAND.
Surrender his wand? That’s an odd way to say he should keep it with him. Unless- Myron Emrys said something about the ministry taking it, but he also said not to worry about that, right? But Mr. Weasley works at the ministry, he’d know best.
The second owl is from Sirius and it says even less of the exact same. Stay put.
Harry, while desperate for information, is in no hurry to remind the Dursleys of his existence. Out of sight is out of mind is safe.
The third owl is much more helpful. It’s not an owl that brings it to him, but a small falcon. He’s never seen a falcon of any size in Little Whinging before.
The writing is the most beautiful Harry’s ever seen. It’s even more fanciful than Dumbledore’s, like ancient calligraphy, but in a terribly natural way that suggests the author just writes like that. The ink is a plain faded brown.
Hello!
Terribly sorry about not warning you, I forgot. Lots happening right now. But I got around to it, didn’t I? You’re probably going out of your mind right now, but don’t worry, the Dursleys are packing post-haste, they should be gone soon. I’ll explain everything as I understand it then. Shouldn’t be more than half an hour now. See you soon!
M E
PS: Do me a favour. Keep your window open?
It takes Harry a minute to recognize the initials for what they are, and then he feels mighty stupid for thinking it just said “me”. He reads the letter over, and again, and again. Keep his window open?
Despite not knowing what it could possibly help, Harry does.
“BOY!” Comes the thundering voice from below the stairs. “WE’RE GOING OUT TO GET DUDLEY TO— SOMEONE. YOU MOVE FROM THAT ROOM, I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT FOR. GIVE ME ANY EXCUSE, BOY, UNDERSTAND?”
Harry’s not supposed to answer, so he stays silent. Myron was right, that was quick. He’s still watching, then?
Harry gets his answer when someone finally joins him- and just like Myron said, they come in through the window.
Then again, it could be a coincidence. It’s pretty sad that Harry’s resorted to pinning his hopes on a lazy blue butterfly that’s flit into his room absently. It’ll be doubly sad if it’s really just a butterfly.
Just as he thinks this, it’s not anymore. In the place of the insect stands Myron Emrys, stumbling a few steps from a rocky landing and adjusting his glasses, looking entirely too used to his own clumsiness. He pats his pockets, turns in a circle, takes his wand out from between his teeth, and mutters to himself for a second before turning his brightness in Harry’s direction.
“Hello! Did you get my letter? I didn’t want you worrying. Obviously I knew you’d worry, there’s quite a bit to worry about, and you’ve had quite a night, but it never did any good and if I could abate it a bit, that would be ideal. Is that the right word? OH, right— are you okay?”
After this flurry of nonsense escapes the twiggy man in Harry’s room, his hands come up and grasp him on either shoulder, leaning down to look him in the eye thoughtfully. Usually Harry hates when people he doesn’t know touch him without warning, but there’s something about Myron Emrys that puts him entirely at ease, and he finds he doesn’t mind.
“Yeah, thanks. You?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have any chocolate, so I hope you’re not as easily depressed as I am. It’s inconvenient, you know. Bloody Cold Ones. Anyway, come on, there’s more space in the kitchen, and more importantly, bacon. I love bacon. What an invention. It used to be so tough, too. Off we go!” he calls over his shoulder, already disappearing down the stairs.
Myron has the opposite effect on a room to Uncle Vernon, Harry thinks. He finds himself so ridiculously agreeable out of the blue that he doesn’t even mind the man’s absurd priorities- he just knows he’ll get his answers. And bacon does sound good, honestly.
Harry immediately moves to make it, but Myron waves him off at once, and after a few more where’s-my-wand circles he’s handling it magically, the pan flying out of its place in the cupboard and the oven turning itself on. It’s not something Harry ever thought he’d see in Petunia’s clinically spotless kitchen. He finds it surprisingly cathartic.
“Right, how hungry are you? One sandwich or more? We’ve got two whole loaves of bread, so don’t worry about that,” Myron hums, leaning back against the counter. Harry surmises that he’s not smiling an abnormal amount, his lips just do it for him naturally. In the light Harry can see now that under his leather jacket he has on a cardigan that matches the ink from his letter almost perfectly. Honestly, a bow tie and he could be Doctor Who or Bill Nye or someone. He’s bouncy enough. His hair is chestnut brown, now Harry can see it in the light, and his eyes are a twinkling blue- a little like Dumbledores’.
“Just one for me, thanks.”
“You sure?” Harry waits for it, but Myron doesn’t glance at Harry’s skinny underfed frame accusingly or make any comments like Mrs. Weasley. It’s just a genuine question.
“Err… maybe two.”
“Good start. Just let me know when you want me to stop burning ‘em, ‘cause I will forget. That is a promise. Okay so,” he claps his long-fingered hands together. He’s very pale. “Here’s the deal:
Dumbledore’s got a sort of force together to fight Tom Riddle. This is who’s been taking turns watching you on rotation over the summer, Harry, in case he seeks you out here, or spies on you, or whatever. I don’t know. And wouldn’t you know it- the first time someone slips up and leaves you open, Cold Ones in Little Whinging.”
“Cold Ones? The dementors?”
“Yeah, the- yeah. I was there ‘cause I hadn’t met you yet and I like to know who I’m working with. Know thy enemy’s good, but it helps to know your friends too, y’know? Anyway, blah blah, Mrs. Figg, you know all that- what’s next? Do you- ah, you haven’t been getting letters. That’s annoying. I’d be right boiled at this point, so let me tell you- your line’s not secure. Seems a bit weird no one told you that. So that’s why no one’s written, Harry, but feel free to yell at them for as long as you’d like about it in person. Which brings me to- uhh, how crispy is too crispy? I might’ve had the stove a touch too high.”
Harry jumps as he realizes the bacon is just about ash. Already? How?
Myron reads his face and shrugs, starting over.
“Right. Don’t worry then, next batch will be better and we’ll eat on the road if we have to.”
“On the road? In person? Like, in person person?”
“In person person,” Myron confirms with a grin. “Won’t be long now. It’s all gone to shit, so all those folks that have made you their business- with love, of course- should be coming to get you now. And they’ll whisk you away, to- wherever. Not sure, really. Hope they let me tag along.”
“Hold on, hold on; I thought you were one of them. You said you knew Dumbledore.”
“Oh I do! But I did just get here, you know, so I’m not in on everything yet. I like to think I made a good impression though. I want to help. No one was going to tell me where the front lines were, so I figured I’d go and find ‘em myself. And here I am.”
“The front lines?” Harry echoes vacantly. It doesn’t seem right to hear about such things from such a cheerful man. Then again, he was on about being depressed earlier, happily as you please. He’s a weird one, Myron. “You really think there’ll be a war?”
“Harry,” Myron replies, and finally, finally he seems a touch more solemn. His lips purse as if he’s sorry to be the one to tell him this, casual as ever. He leans forward a little as if imparting an embarrassing secret to a friend. “It’s already started.”