The Advanced Guard
Harry has a lot to consider over the three days he and Myron spend at the Dursley’s.
If he thought Myron Emrys was a trip before, he’s a whole vacation now. He might be the strangest person Harry’s ever met (he does not say that lightly), and yet every time he opens his mouth Harry likes him more and more.
Harry couldn’t believe it when Myron said magic was forbidden where he grew up. Forbidden? Forbidden forbidden? He’s never heard of such a thing. He can’t believe that anyone who knew about magic could ever see it as anything but miraculous, just like Myron said. He remembers Hermione giving him this lecture though, about the witch trials, about the reasons behind the Statute of Secrecy, but he never properly thought about it til now. Places like that still exist?
Then he thinks of the Dursleys. They know about magic. They treat it like a disgusting disease, a shameful sin. He can see them burning their fair share of witches. And what they’d think of Myron- what a horrible thought. Harry’s hated every second he’s had to spend under their fat, oppressive thumbs. The only thing that made life worth living was Hogwarts, was magic, his friends and his hope that this is not all that there is. That he will be free again. But Myron didn’t go to school. Myron didn’t get out until he was older, he had to teach himself. Everyone was a Dursley. Harry’s stomach curls into itself in horror.
Maybe that’s why Harry trusts him. Harry spends all of three days with the guy, three days soaking in every strange, unexpected word out of Myron’s babbling mouth, and he already feels like a close friend. Maybe part of that is just Myron- he seems incapable of anything within the realm of lying or subterfuge, in the same way an innocent child or a senile grandparent is- it just wouldn’t occur to him to be anything but open. But maybe it’s what Myron said about the things people don’t understand.
Harry revels in magic. No one else he’s ever met has ever loved it quite so much, he thinks, at least not consciously. It’s a given for them, but to Harry, it’s a blessing. A miracle. Harry doesn’t take a single spell for granted, because he’s lived without them and it’s horrible. Every now and then he sits back and thanks Merlin for the back-breaking potions essay he’s slaving away at today, and no one understands that. No one appreciates the magic of magic.
Myron does. Myron’s lived without it. Myron’s been scared and ashamed, hidden his spellbook under floorboards like Harry hides his broomstick in the cupboard under the stairs. Myron gets it.
Aside from that, Harry loves the guy. He’s a little strange, sure, but all the best people are. He reminds Harry of Dumbledore sometimes, the way his eyes twinkle, the odd things he says. And he never treats Harry like a child, never once. Harry doesn’t think Myron could even see him that way if he tried. It’s brilliant.
It’s another example to bolster his theory, then, that the best people have the rottenest luck.
“You’re homeless?”
Myron shakes his head without a thought, sipping his root beer like it really is of no consequence. “No, Harry. I’m houseless. Very big difference.”
“Is there?”
Myron looks almost offended at the thought. “Most definitely. I’d be lost without a home. A house is just a house.”
“But you just said I could kick you out whenever!”
“You can. ‘S your house.”
It's not! And that is so not the point! “But you’d have nowhere to go!”
Myron grins and twinkles, his skinny shoulders bracketing him as he leans forward on his folded forearms like a kid, head bobbing wildly. “Isn’t it exciting?”
Harry hears himself laugh, completely dumb struck. Here’s this man, who grew up a wizard where magic is forbidden, had to teach himself in secret, is currently homeless and wants to fight a war, and all without missing a beat, smiling like he’s at a parade all the while. He’s so happy about his shitty life that he’s made Harry happy about his. He’s breathed life into Harry’s personal hell right here in Privet Drive. He’s like Mary fucking Poppins.
“Where’s your home, then?” Harry smiles, shaking his head, always curious what he’s gonna say next.
Merlin smiles even wider somehow and tilts his head, tapping a long, pale finger to his temple as if imparting a secret he’s incapable of keeping. “I keep him with me.”
“Him?”
“The man of my dreams.”
Oh, right. Myron mentioned him the other morning, didn’t he? Harry thought he was just saying things, like he just had a dream that some handsome fella waltzed in and told him Harry’s a keeper and waltzed back out. Maybe it’s a recurring dream though, or Myron’s own hope that keeps him going.
“The one who likes me?” he asks, just in case it’s a new dream man every other night.
Merlin nods. “I knew he would.”
Harry slurps some more curry, considering this. It’s incredible curry. Myron says he thinks it’s from Thailand, but he can’t quite remember. It’s better than anything Harry’s ever had in this horrible house by miles.
Plenty of people dream of love, but it tracks that Myron would have to do it differently. Harry never considered building a hypothetical dream partner and assigning them thoughts and traits and things. He wonders if it helps. It clearly works for Myron, if that’s his home. Some people might call it sad, but Harry can’t think of Myron as that at all.
“What’s his name? Does he have one?” he asks curiously. What does one name a hypothetical dream husband?
“To me he’s Arthur,” Myron says fondly, like he’s talking about an old friend. He doesn’t do anything in halves, does he?
“That’s a good name,” Harry offers. “Kingly.”
“He’s certainly that.”
“He’s not mad at you for staying with me?” Harry asks. It might’ve been meant as a tease, but it doesn’t come out that way. Harry wants to treat this with respect. It clearly means a lot to Myron, and he’s not going to call it invalid because it’s in his head. Maybe he’s going crazy here with no one but a borderline nutter for company, but he genuinely wants to understand. And he’s never afraid to ask, with Myron. “For… looking for the front lines?”
Myron snorts into his root beer. “That’d be rich. He was on the front lines so much he went and died on them. Nah, if anything, he was mad I lost at Twister. He’s a terrible loser, Harry. Terrible.”
Harry stills.
Died?
He’s dead? Dead dead? Dream men aren’t dead. But memories…
“He died?” he hears himself ask quietly, desperately hoping Myron corrects him. But he just hums his flippant confirmation, no bother.
Not a dream man, then. A man Myron loved and lost and couldn’t let go. A home he can only ever see in his head.
I’d be lost without a home.
Oh, this is way worse than a dream man. What a horrible time life’s given such a wonderful person. His mum and dad, Sirius, Remus, Myron… the best people really do have the rottenest luck.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, setting his cutlery down. “If he was your home, you must miss him very much.”
Myron snorts again, steamrolling over Harry’s seriousness in that careless way of his that makes things seem not so hard. “Not really. I see him every night, even the nights I don’t want to. Are you a sweet tooth? Because I can make desert.”
CRASH.
Harry leaps up, whipping his wand out. Myron gets up much more casually, patting around himself for his wand. Harry plucks it from behind his ear and hands it over. His movements stutter as he doesn’t recognize it. Myron’s wand is a twisty crooked branch filled with holes and off-shooting twigs that twist together into a tiny living tree at the end, and it suits him perfectly. Harry only sees this one quickly before Myron grabs it, but it’s not the same at all. This one has brightly coloured rocks pebbled unevenly along the crooked length and a tiny criss-crossing little wrap, like a shoelace or something, and the ties fly wildly as he flails it around.
“Wait, is that a different wand than you had before?”
“Yeah, can’t find the other one. Not to worry, it’ll turn up. After you,” Myron smiles, standing aside with a sweeping hand to let Harry through the door to investigate. Harry should be worried, but if Myron isn’t, he can’t bring himself to be. Maybe he really has gone crazy.
He steps through the door.
Eight or nine people with little to nothing in common with each other stand in the living room, shuffling around for space. His eyes tunnel in on the most apparent, and familiar.
“Lower your wand, boy, before you take someone’s eye out,” growls Alastor Moody.
“It’s all right, Harry. We’ve come to take you away.”
Harry’s eyes snap to the second, slightly hoarse voice, and his heart leaps as he meets the source.
“Professor Lupin!” he exclaims delightedly.
And there he is, in all his shabby, scar-riddled glory. His previously wavy hair is a little longer, falling in his eyes limply. There’s grey through it, Harry thinks, but Lupin’s hair was always a dull enough brown that it’s rather hard to tell. His stubble’s grown in so that his many scars slice through it obviously. His sharp features and warm, intelligent eyes are a marvellous sight to Harry. Even though he’s got more patches in his clothes than ever, he stands taller than Harry remembers and smiles widely back at him.
“Oooh, he looks just like I thought he would,” says a witch almost tall enough to match him, craning her head of spiky purple hair around Remus’ form to get a better look. She has mischievous features at odds with her soft, heart-shaped face. Her dark eyes twinkle with natural cheer as she winks at him companionably. “Wotcher, Harry!”
“Yeah, I see what you mean, Remus,” a bald black wizard says in a slow, deep voice like molten gold that matches the hoop in his ear. “He looks exactly like James.”
“Except the eyes,” comes a wheezy voice from the back that Harry attributes to a very short wizard with silver hair and yellow eyes that remind him of Madame Hooch’s. “Lily’s eyes.”
“Shut it! We’re not alone!” Moody growls. “We haven’t confirmed their identities yet. It’d be a nice lookout if we bring back some Death Eaters impersonating them. We ought to ask this one something only the real Potter would know.”
It hasn’t escaped Harry’s notice that while the mood is friendly, no one’s lowered their wands yet. He looks behind him to Myron, who’s stumbled in after him at some point, and makes sure to stand close so they know he’s okay. Remus’ eyebrow twitches in mild surprise. Moody’s eye hasn’t left Myron the entire time. Myron seems content to stare right back. Harry can’t blame him.
“Harry, what form does your Patronus take?” Remus asks.
“A stag,” he replies. “This is Myron Emrys. He’s alright, don’t worry.”
Remus gives Moody a confirming nod, and then all attention’s on Myron.
“Dumbledore said we might find you as well,” Moody grumbles reluctantly, as if Myron’s offended him by checking out.
Remus steps forward with a friendly smile, pulling a little bottle out of his coat. “Apologies, but I’m going to have to get you to drink some Veritaserum to confirm your identity and intentions. Is that alright?”
“Oh, yes, no problem, no problem, but first, Harry, could you just ask someone something only they’d know?”
“Oh, Moody’s gonna like this one,” the tall purple-haired witch snickers.
“Right. Um, Professor Lupin, what classroom did we meet in?”
Remus smirks at the trick question, and Harry already knows it’s him. “We met on the train to Hogwarts, we shared a carriage until the dementors came.”
He nods at Myron, who’s satisfied.
“Great. Um, Harry, could you hold this for me? Thanks,” he says, happily handing Harry his wand (prompting more than a few eyebrow raises) and downing the serum.
“Who do you work for?” Moody gruffs.
“Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.”
“Who else?”
“No one, to my knowledge.”
“What are your intentions with Harry?” Remus asks.
“To help him get through this war alive, and make sure he eats and drinks water sometimes.”
“What are your intentions with the Dark Lord?” Moody snaps a little more sharply, disgruntled that Myron’s still checking out.
“Tom Riddle? To see him dead. I think it would be nice to make him suffer quite a lot, too, but you can’t have everything," he says with an off-puttingly pleasant demeanour, as if discussing types of butterflies. Harry blinks. Just when he thinks he knows what he'll say...
“Are you reporting to anyone aside from Dumbledore?”
Myron tilts his head- not quite hesitant, just unsure how to put his answer.
“No one alive.”
“The hell does that mean?” Moody snarls, advancing.
Myron opens his mouth but Harry cuts him off. He shouldn’t have to blurt out all his secrets, even if keeping them’s a foreign concept to him. It feels wrong to just give the knowledge of Arthur away to strangers so readily. Even though he should probably qualify as a a stranger himself by traditional standards.
“It’s not relevant. It’s not- it’s nothing. Don’t worry.”
Now both of Remus’ eyebrows rocket up, and he looks at Harry in shock, then shifts that curious gaze to Myron, who's rocking on his heels, perfectly at ease.
“Oh, even you can’t think up a way for someone who’s already kicked it to be plotting against us, Moody,” the purple-haired witch accuses.
“He’s reporting to them, he said-”
“We all miss talking to the people we’ve lost. Some of us still do,” Harry snaps defensively. “Is that satisfactory?”
There’s a loaded silence as Moody looks around and recognises he’s outvoted, and then actually considers the reasoning.
"Is that what it is?" he demands.
"Yep," Myron chirps, popping the p.
Moody finally grunts. Harry takes that to be a sign that they can move on.
“Right,” Remus sighs (he does that a lot, Harry’s missed it), “let’s get–”
“How hot is Harry’s aunt?” the purple-haired witch blurts with a shit-eating grin. Remus’ face twists up in an amalgam of horror and apology.
“She’s terribly cold, actually, horrible woman. Looks quite like a horse, except I like horses.” Myron informs her, making her snort like a pig. “I love your hair. Mr. Moody, may I ask where you got that eye?”
“You may not. Emrys, you said?”
-~o~-
The troupe of them meanders their way into the kitchen where Remus tells Harry they’re waiting for a signal to go and introduces the rest of the party. Harry already likes Tonks, the purple-haired witch, and Myron does too by the looks, but for Myron not to get on with you you’ve got to be really special, he suspects.
“You seem well, Harry,” Remus comments, trying to find the right words for his surprise. “I didn’t expect you to be so chipper, honestly.”
“I was downright miserable,” Harry admits. “But Myron’s kept me company the last few days. He makes it very hard to be unhappy.”
“Right,” Remus flicks his gaze across the room to where the man’s fixing Daedalus Diggle’s hat so it doesn’t fall off quite so much, somehow nearly tripping over a doorstop while still stationary. Tonks cackles at him and then trips over it herself. “He certainly seems like an interesting character. And to get your endorsement so quickly? If I didn’t know you I’d say you’ve been charmed. With a charm.”
“Feel free to check,” Harry offers.
“I already have,” Remus admits. “You’re clear. He must just be that interesting.”
Harry chuckles. “You have no idea.”
“So, it’ll be brooms, then?” Myron asks the room at large. Tonks chirps an affirmative.
“Remus says you’re a good flier,” Kingsley Shacklebolt says to Harry in his deep voice.
“He’s excellent,” Remus hums, checking his watch. “Anyway, you’d better go and get packed, Harry, we want to be ready to go when the signal comes.”
“I’ve already packed. Myron said you’d be coming, we expected you ages ago. My trunks are upstairs, I’ll just go and get them.”
“I’ll come and help you,” Tonks declares.
-~o~-
Once Harry’s disappeared off with Tonks, Merlin’s left at the mercy of the advanced guard in all their advanced and guardly glory.
He must admit, Moody’s eye threw him for quite a loop. He hasn’t lost an eye since World War two, but it’s undeniably his. What unlikely turn of events took place to bring it here of all places, back to him in the vanguard’s eye socket? Well, as long as someone’s using it.
War sure brings interesting people together, doesn’t it? Tonks and Moody don’t seem like likely friends. A Metamorphagus is rare, but it sure comes in handy, Merlin can tell you. She’ll be good for undercover ops. And imagine being a werewolf named Lupin! Oh, look, he’s open. Better go say hi.
So he goes over and says, “Hi.”
“Hello,” the drab fellow replies with a friendly smile, extending a hand with almost as many scars as Merlin’s. “Remus Lupin.”
“Myron Emrys,” he returns. “Pleasantly surprised to meet you, I thought all I’d ever know you from was Harry’s stories.”
“Harry’s told you about me?” he asks, sounding delighted and shocked in equal measure. “All good things, I hope.”
“Good? Hm, no, but if you mean positive, yes. I think the word might be more… inspiring. Or interesting? They inspired and interested me, in a decidedly positive way.”
Before Remus can attempt to parse this, Moody’s cutting in.
“That’s an interestin’ accent,” he growls. “Where’s it from?”
“Somewhere that doesn’t exist anymore,” Merlin replies easily. He sees Moody’s natural eye snap to Remus, silently asking him if the Veritaserum’s still working. Right, Merlin forgot about that. Remus gives him the tiniest nod. “Would you like me to use a different one?”
Moody grunts a dismissal and wanders off, eye still locked on him.
“Don’t mind him, he’s like that with everyone,” Remus assures him. “We wouldn’t have made you use a different accent for no reason.”
“No, you wouldn’t have,” Merlin agrees. “I mean, I wouldn’t have done it. I was just curious if he wanted me to, and why.”
Remus nods absently. “Oh, and I’m sorry about the serum. It should wear off in a few minutes.”
Merlin waves him off. “Don’t worry, I don’t like lying anyway. Oh, look, they're back.”
Sure enough, Harry and Tonks are stumbling their way in, one much more clumsily than the other. Remus gives a fond huff.
“Oh, right, do you have a broom?” he asks Merlin.
“Umm…” Merlin takes half a second to disappear (mimicking the sound of disapparition) and come back with something that looks like it’s probably good. “Yes.”
Remus blinks.
“A Nimbus?” Harry whistles, sidling up beside him. “You have a Nimbus 3000, but you’re homeless.”
“We’ve been over this, Harry, homeless and houseless, very different things,” Merlin hums, booping him on the nose and handing Harry his Firebolt once he summons it.
“Which one’re you?” Tonks asks from behind Harry, hair now bubblegum pink. Remus steps on her foot chidingly. “Ow!”
“Houseless, I think,” Merlin replies. “Here, Harry, take a jacket, it’ll be freezing. Actually, here, I’ll heat charm you.”
“You think?” Tonks repeats in mild alarm.
“Right, let’s get going,” Moody gruffs, once again interrupting to drag Harry over roughly. “Come here, boy, I need to Disillusion you.”
“You need to what?” Harry asks.
“Disillusionment Charm. Lupin says you’ve got an Invisibility Cloak, but it won’t stay on while we’re flying; this’ll disguise you better. Here you go —”
He raps Harry on the top of his impossibly curly head and he ripples and disappears.
“Nice one, Mad-Eye,” says Tonks appreciatively, eyeing his work.
“Aww, I miss him already,” Merlin pouts.
“I’m not dead,” Harry reminds him.
“Sometimes I still hear his voice,” Merlin whimpers wistfully. Tonks pats him on the back and wipes a fake tear from her eye. Harry invisibly snickers.
“Come on,” Moody gruffs, flicking the back door open with his wand and leading the curious troupe outside.
“Clear night,” He grunts, his Merlin eye scanning the heavens. “Could’ve done with a bit more cloud cover. Right, you,” he barks at Harry, “we’re going to be flying in close formation. Tonks’ll be right in front of you, keep close on her tail. Lupin’ll be covering you from below. I’m going to be behind you. The rest’ll be circling us.”
“I’ll take above,” Merlin offers. He’s largely ignored, so he takes that as agreement. Moody steamrolls on.
“We don’t break ranks for anything, got me? If one of us is killed —”
“Is that likely?” Harry asks apprehensively, but he is also ignored. Merlin gives him a reassuring head shake. Not while he’s here, it’s not.
“— the others keep flying, don’t stop, don’t break ranks. If they take out all of us and you survive, Harry, the rear guard are standing by to take over; keep flying east and they’ll join you.”
“Stop being so cheerful, Mad-Eye, he’ll think we’re not taking this seriously,” Tonks rolls her eyes, strapping Harry’s trunk and Hedwig’s cage into a harness hanging from her broom.
“I’m just telling the boy the plan. Our job’s to deliver him safely to headquarters and if we die in the attempt —”
“No one’s going to die,” declares Kingsley Shacklebolt in his deep, calming voice.
“Mount your brooms, that’s the first signal!” Remus barks, pointing into the sky.
A rather lovely flare of brilliant ruby red sparks that fit right in among the stars scatters across the black velvet sky. Then a second shower of emerald green. It’s like Christmas.
“Second signal, let’s go!” Lupin says loudly, and off they go.
Merlin’s very glad he gave Harry that heat charm. It’s more than freezing. Moody calls out directions to swerve this way or rise another quarter of a mile, and he even wants to double back to lose any tails by the end (there are none, Merlin checked), but he’s overruled and finally they all touch down in the shabby side streets of a poor man’s London.
Moody makes quick work of the lights with a de-luminator. Merlin thinks they’re called something else now, something catchier. Un-Lighters? He hands Harry, still in his camouflage, a slip of paper and steers him to the front of one of the buildings that looks, smells, and probably tastes exactly the same as all the rest.
“Read quickly and memorize,” he instructs, lighting the page with his wand. Once Harry’s done with it, he hands it to Merlin. It looks like someone with terrible handwriting’s tried painstakingly hard to make the narrow words readable.
The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.