arms around his own shoulders and dragged him towards the road, sagging slightly under the weight. Mrs. Figg tottered along in front of them, peering anxiously around the corner.
‘Keep your wand out,’ she told Harry, as they entered 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?’
It was not easy to hold a wand steady and haul Dudley along at the same time. Harry gave his cousin an impatient dig in the ribs, but Dudley seemed to have lost all desire for independent movement. He was slumped on Harry's shoulder, his large feet dragging along the ground.
‘Why didn't you tell me you're a Squib, Mrs. Figg?’ asked Harry, panting with the effort to keep walking. ‘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, Harry, 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 said 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 groaned, wondering whether his spine was going to snap under Dudley's weight.
‘Harry, you don't understand! Dumbledore will need to act as quickly as possible, the Ministry have their own ways of detecting underage magic, they'll know already, you mark my words—’
‘But I was getting rid of dementors, I had to use magic—they're going to be more worried about what dementors were doing floating around Wisteria Walk, surely?’
‘Oh, my dear, I wish it were so, but I'm afraid— MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER, I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!’
There was a loud crack and a strong smell of drink mingled with stale tobacco filled the air as a squat, unshaven man in a tattered overcoat materialised right in front of them. He had short, bandy legs, long straggly ginger hair and bloodshot, baggy eyes that gave him the doleful look of a basset hound. He was also clutching a silvery bundle that Harry recognised at once as an Invisibility Cloak.
’ ‘S’ up, Figgy?’ he said, staring from Mrs. Figg to Harry and Dudley. ‘What ‘appened to staying undercover?’
‘I'll give you undercover!’ cried Mrs. Figg. ‘Dementors, you useless, skiving sneak thief!’
‘Dementors?’ repeated Mundungus, aghast. ‘Dementors, here?’
‘Yes, here, you worthless pile of bat droppings, here!’ shrieked Mrs. Figg. ‘Dementors attacking the boy on your watch!’
‘Blimey,’ said Mundungus 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 business opportunity, see...’
Mrs. Figg raised the arm from which her string bag dangled and whacked Mundungus around the face and neck with it; judging by the clanking noise it made it was full of cat food.
‘Ouch—gerroff— gerroff, you mad old bat! Someone's gotta tell Dumbledore!’
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