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The Wind Mage's Legacy: Chapter 10
🕑 Added 2024-11-24 13:23:59 +0000 UTCHi all,
Here’s the next chapter. Harry selects his Quidditch team and acquires information that leads him to the Mundane’s leader.
Chapter 10
Harry gazed up at Tuthill Quidditch Stadium, its ancient stone walls weathered by centuries of Gloucestershire storms. A blue banner sagged above the entrance, its faded tornado and "TT" lettering barely visible against the slate-grey sky. For a professional team's logo, it looked more suited to a village pub's Sunday league side.
The Tuthill Tornadoes. Of all the teams courting him, he'd chosen to visit them first—partly because their name matched his wind abilities, partly because he couldn’t make up his mind on his own. Their contract wasn't the most generous, but he wasn’t concerned about money.
He slipped through the stadium entrance, weaving invisible currents into a cloak that bent light away from his form. The privacy would let him observe without causing a scene—technically, the public wasn't allowed during practice sessions, but Harry had never been one for following rules. Besides, how else could he see the team's dynamics?
Shouts and the sharp crack of wood against iron drew his attention to the practice session below. The entire team, including the main team and the reserve players, was practising their drills.
Two players dominated the practice session, their skill levels soaring above their teammates.
Brevis Birch prowled the pitch's centre, the captain's massive frame rippling with barely contained power. Each swing of his Beater's bat sent Bludgers screaming into practice targets, the iron balls leaving sonic booms in their wake. Wooden bull's-eyes exploded on impact, showering the grass with splinters. Not a single target survived his onslaught.
Between the goalposts, Mervyn Fenwick performed an aerial ballet. The young Keeper's fingers tap-danced against his broomstick between saves—a nervous habit that vanished the moment Quaffles approached. His dark hair whipped wild in the wind as he intercepted shot after shot with fluid grace. Even Oliver Wood, Puddlemore's star Keeper, would struggle to match Fenwick's lightning reflexes.
The rest of the squad ran formation drills overhead, their positioning solid if unspectacular. Fresh faces dominated the lineup—casualties of the war had forced a rebuilding year along with some retirements.
A lonely trophy gleamed behind dusty glass in the entrance hall. The Tornadoes' last taste of glory was five consecutive league victories in the early 1900s. Since then, only cobwebs have decorated their display case.
Until '95. That season, the Tornadoes soared from bottom-dwellers to title contenders overnight. Although Mervyn and Brevis were credited a lot for the team’s success, there were accusations of cheating.
Perfect weather followed them like a faithful pet—never a crosswind during home games, never a storm cloud in sight. Opposing teams muttered about weather charms, but investigations found nothing concrete. The miracle season ended in second place, leaving behind a legacy of whispered accusations. In the previous two years, they hadn’t come close to winning the league.
A scream pierced the air. Harry's hand instinctively moved toward his wand before he caught himself—old habits died hard. One of the reserve Chasers spiralled out of control, a stray Bludger having shattered her shoulder with a crack that echoed across the pitch. Her broom spun towards the stands like a broken compass needle as her fingers slipped, emerald robes snapping in the wind as she plummeted.
Harry's stomach lurched. After years of Quidditch accidents and near-misses, he recognized the trajectory of a fatal fall. The woman had maybe five seconds before impact. No cushioning charms protected the seats below—a critical oversight that could cost a life.
Her teammates streaked after her, but Harry already knew they wouldn't make it. The woman's screams shifted from shock to terror as realisation hit that she would die.
No time for hesitation. Harry dropped his invisibility, power surging through his veins as he reached out. Air currents responded instantly, weaving into invisible ropes that wrapped around the falling player.
He guided her down into an empty seat, her chest heaving with panicked breaths. Her freckled face was ghost-white, and blood trickled from where the Bludger had struck her shoulder.
Boots thundered against wooden planks as the team landed around them. Questions burst forth like startled birds. Through the chaos, Birch shouldered his way forward, his scarred face tight with the fear of a captain who'd nearly lost a player.
"Sarah, you alright?" His hands moved quickly but gently, checking for injuries.
Sarah nodded shakily, her copper ponytail plastered to her neck with sweat.
Her eyes found Harry's, wide with lingering terror and dawning recognition. "Thanks to him." Her trembling finger pointed upward. "You're Harry Potter."
The team swarmed around Harry, their gratitude tumbling over each other until Mervyn Fenwick's sharp voice sliced through the din. His fingers drummed against his broomstick's polished handle with manic energy, a stark contrast to his earlier fluid movements in front of the hoops.
"What are you doing here, Potter?" Suspicion darkened his brown eyes.
"Checking out the team," Harry said simply.
Mervyn's eyes narrowed to slits. "As a spy?"
Brevis cuffed him across the back of the head. "Don't be a bloody idiot."
He turned to address the gathered players, his deep voice carrying natural authority. "Management made Potter an offer weeks ago."
"How was I supposed to know that?" Mervyn rubbed his head, scowling.
"Because every team in the league's after him, you muppet," called out a stocky man pushing through the crowd.
His close-cropped black hair and twice-broken nose spoke of years in the game's trenches. Deep smile lines creased his weathered face as he extended a calloused hand to Harry. "Keith Kimmons, Beater.”
“Especially with these new rules coming in,” another teammate added.
“It doesn’t explain why he was so secretive-like,” Mervyn scowled. “Why didn’t he tell us he was coming?”
Harry watched as the team rushed to his defence, arguing with Mervyn. Especially Sarah, who looked far too energetic after her near-death experience and her broken shoulder. He didn’t know what the Keeper’s problem was but it didn’t bother him.
A piercing whistle blast shattered the morning calm. Players' heads snapped around as their coach appeared. Something in his bearing commanded attention—perhaps the ramrod-straight spine or the way his eyes missed nothing, cataloguing the scene with military precision.
"Right then," he said. His gaze lingered on Sarah's bloodied shoulder before sweeping across the gathered players. "Davis, escort her to the medic. No arguments, lass—that needs proper attention. The rest of you lot, back to your drills. We're not paying you to stand about gawking."
He turned to Harry. "Well now, Mr. Potter. This is a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. Egbert Whitehead. Though most call me Iggy."
"Harry's fine," Harry replied.
"Harry, it is then." Iggy smiled. "Why don't we continue this chat in my office? There’s something I want to discuss with you."
His office smelled of leather and broom polish. The walls were covered with tactical diagrams and portraits of players flying in and out of frames. Iggy conjured tea with a practised flick of his wand and served it to Harry.
"So," he said, settling behind his desk, "checking us out on the sly?"
Harry nodded, wrapping his hands around the warm cup. "The Tornadoes made my shortlist. I wanted to see the team dynamics without causing a media circus."
"How many other teams have you visited?"
"You're the first."
Iggy leaned back in his chair. "What do you make of our team? The overall vibe?"
"I like the team name,” Harry said. “The team’s logo and uniforms could be updated. The stadium could do with a fresh coat of paint as well. As for the players, Birch and Fenwick stand out, but the rest of the squad needs serious development."
Iggy grimaced but nodded, not arguing with his assessment. Then a slow smile spread across his weathered face, transforming his stern features. "Actually, your timing's perfect. I have plans for a complete reset—I just need a star to build around."
"Meaning?"
The coach spread a large parchment across his desk. Detailed sketches covered the yellowed surface, including uniform designs in navy and silver, a new broom, and merchandise mock-ups. Harry noted the artistic quality; someone had spent considerable time on these.
"I would like to completely rebrand the team," Iggy explained. "A new logo. New uniform. Custom brooms. A complete merchandise line. Your popularity would propel the sales into the stratosphere."
Harry's eyebrow rose as he studied the designs. "You want me as a mascot for the salary you offered me?"
"No, no." Iggy waved his hand. "Your salary would increase substantially. Plus a percentage of the merchandise’s revenue."
"It sounds expensive to do a complete rebrand," Harry noted.
Iggy's shoulders slumped, his earlier enthusiasm deflating. "That's the rub. Some investors are already skittish after years of losses and will be hard to convince. The club has been bleeding money for years."
He paused, watching Harry's reaction. "Your signing would convince them to back the plan. Even without rebranding, you'd boost the team’s competitiveness and ticket sales."
Harry rolled the offer around in his mind, weighing each aspect carefully. The marketing plan left a bitter taste in his mouth—an attempt to capitalise on his fame, to transform him from person to product. What he craved was simpler: just him, a broom, and the game he loved. No merchandise. No promotional appearances. No bloody photo shoots for teen witch magazines.
But reality intruded on that dream. Whatever team he chose, his name alone would draw crowds and reporters. Regardless of whether he served as a team mascot or not. If fame was unavoidable, maybe he should accept it on his terms.
Other teams would surely have similar plans waiting in their desk drawers. At least Iggy had been upfront about it.
As though reading his troubled expression, the coach cleared his throat. "Tell you what—why not get some air while you think it over? Nothing clears the head like a proper flying session. The team is still practising; it might give you a better sense of if you would fit in."
"Don't have a broom," Harry said. "Lost it during the war."
He still hadn’t located his Firebolt. It appeared to have vanished in thin air or been stolen. Given that it was a keepsake from Sirius, he missed it dearly.
"No problem,” Iggy said. “Got spares in the equipment room."
Harry nodded. “Alright. It’s been a while since I have flown.”
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Harry spent several days practising with the team. The team's dedication and drive mirrored his own. Not to mention that he got along well with everybody. Chemistry was important. Even Mervyn had warmed to him after seeing him fly.
He decided to sign with the team, but Iggy wanted to get his plans approved first. It proved to be more challenging than anticipated. Several investors blocked the rebranding plan, citing concerns about the cost. It was evident that they had no faith in the club and were looking for a way out.
Harry obliged and bought their shares. Now he owned forty percent of the club. The galleons barely dented his vault at Gringotts, and the potential returns looked promising.
Some might call it a conflict of interest—playing for a team he partially owned. But ethics worked differently in the magical world. At the very least, in Britain. He declined a salary to keep things marginally fair, counting on merchandise sales and share dividends instead.
His investigation into the Mundanes hit a wall. The Squib leads went nowhere, and his wind spirits reported nothing suspicious across Britain. The group had gone quiet since the plane incident, probably lying low until scrutiny died down. He was still trying to find one of them who he had suspicions about, but it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
The ‘Tempest’ situation spun further out of control each day. Tourists packed London's streets, cameras ready, hoping to glimpse Britain's mysterious hero. Intelligence agencies from across the globe established temporary offices, their analysts poring over grainy footage and interviewing witnesses. Every major network and newspaper led with Tempest stories, feeding the growing frenzy.
MACUSA representatives arrived in England and pressed the queen for information, but she revealed nothing. Harry knew it wouldn't take long before they linked his demonstration of power at the Battle of Hogwarts with Tempest. That inevitable confrontation lurked in the back of his mind, a problem he'd rather not think about.
Harry knew he needed to feed the alien narrative soon before the situation deteriorated further. His ideas ranged from orchestrating mysterious lights in the night sky to crafting elaborate crop circles. He even considered recording a message with a convincing illusion and sending it to all of the news outlets.
Each plan sounded more absurd than the last. He missed Hermione's logical approach to problems. She would have immediately identified the flaws in his plans and assisted him in developing something more convincing.
His NEWTs loomed closer. Between the club and hunting terrorists, his study time disappeared. The thought of failing his exams caused his stomach to churn, which is why he headed to Hogwarts to speak to the headmistress.
Harry stepped out of McGonagall's fireplace, brushing soot from his shoulders. Zephyr clung to his shirt, the tiny spirit's form shimmering after experiencing its first floo journey. The rascal wanted to accompany him so he could explore the school. He had an insatiable curiosity about everything.
"Mr Potter." McGonagall sat behind the massive headmaster's desk, her quill paused mid-stroke. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
“It’s Harry,” he replied. “We’re all adults here.”
"That will take some time to get used to," she admitted. “Call me, Minerva.”
Zephyr darted from Harry's shirt, swirling around the office in excited circles. The spirit paused at McGonagall's tight bun, tugging playfully at the strands until she fixed it with her sternest glare. It retreated behind a shelf of trinkets.
"Is that a wind spirit, Harry?"
Harry's gaze flicked to the wall. He grimaced when he saw Dumbledore's portrait, the painted figure leaning forward with undisguised curiosity. Snape's frame hung beside him, its occupant watching with his usual sneering expression.
"How do you stomach having these two massive egos in the same room?" Harry asked Minerva, ignoring Dumbledore’s question entirely.
The corners of her mouth twitched. "With great difficulty."
"Still as arrogant as ever, Potter," Snape drawled.
"Brilliant to see you too, Professor. You're slightly more tolerable dead. But only slightly."
Snape's sneering intensified.
“Don’t keep that expression for too long,” Harry said. “Otherwise your face will be stuck that way for—oops.”
"Mr Potter!" McGonagall gasped, forgetting to address him with his first name.
"Harry, my boy." Dumbledore's painted eyes twinkled. "I trust you're well?"
Harry shrugged. "As well as could be expected."
The bitterness of Dumbledore’s actions lingered, despite the conversation they held in limbo. But it was all water under the bridge now. Then he remembered—this portrait wouldn't remember that talk. He had an urge to get back at the headmaster.
"I've heard about your victory against Voldemort," Dumbledore continued. "If I'd known you possessed such abilities, perhaps I would have approached things differently."
Harry rolled his eyes. "I needed to go through with your plan to unlock my powers and destroy the you-know-what. So congratulations on a well-executed scheme."
Dumbledore's painted face fell. "Harry, my boy. If there had been any other way—"
"Care to take a walk, Professor McGonagall?" Harry cut in. "I need a favour."
McGonagall glanced between Harry and the portraits before nodding. They headed for the door.
"Wait, Harry—about your powers. Does it have anything to do with—"
Zephyr slammed the door, cutting off Dumbledore's words. Harry's laughter echoed down the spiral staircase. Zephyr vanished to explore as soon as they entered the corridor.
They walked in silence through the empty corridors. He noticed changes since his last visit here. The interior reconstruction continued; some areas still showed structural damage, while others appeared brand new.
"What plan were you referring to?" McGonagall asked finally.
Harry hesitated. It felt petty, but... "Dumbledore knew I had to die. He raised me for slaughter, hoping Voldemort's killing curse would destroy his soul fragment."
McGonagall stopped dead. "He did what?"
"To be fair, he suspected I'd survive. He turned out to be right."
"To be fair?" Her Scottish brogue thickened with anger. "That manipulative old—” She caught herself. "Perhaps his portrait needs to be relocated to a place where I don’t need to stare at his crooked nose all day."
"An empty room would drive him mad," Harry suggested. "No one to talk to and share his pearls of wisdom."
She nodded sharply. "Now, what brings you here?"
"I have my NEWTs exams in two weeks. I need a tutor. I can pay them for their time."
"Two weeks?" Her eyebrows shot up. "Why such haste? It's only June."
"Made the booking before life got complicated. With Quidditch training starting soon—”
"Quidditch training?"
"I signed with the Tutshill Tornados. I start training in a month.”
"Professional Quidditch?" McGonagall's stern expression softened. "Well. That's... unexpected."
"Never thought I'd willingly step back into the spotlight," Harry said.
"You never left it, and likely never will." McGonagall's eyes crinkled. "Though I must say, congratulations are in order. I may have to switch my allegiance from the Montrose Magpies."
Harry smiled, knowing she was joking.
"About my studies," he said. "I need someone to tutor me. I can pay well, but it'll be intense work. Do you know anyone who might—
Voices echoed down the corridor, cutting him off. Daphne and Astoria Greengrass rounded the corner, deep in argument. They pulled up short at the sight of Harry and McGonagall.
Astoria launched herself at Harry, wrapping him in a tight hug. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, but her smile remained bright. Daphne looked equally exhausted, though her expression held none of her sister's cheer.
"Potter," she said with a nod.
Harry clutched his chest. "Woe to the day when I hear my first name on your lips."
A smile tugged at Daphne's mouth. "You'll be waiting a long time."
They fell into easy conversation until McGonagall cleared her throat. Harry started—he'd almost forgotten she stood there.
"Perhaps Miss Greengrass is the solution to your problem," she said.
Daphne's eyebrow arched in question.
"I need a tutor," Harry explained. "For my NEWT exams. I will pay you."
The sisters exchanged glances before Daphne asked, "Would accommodation be included? For both of us?"
"Why do you need accommodation?"
"Mrs Greengrass has been harassing them to return home," McGonagall interjected. "While she has no authority over Daphne, Astoria's situation is different."
Astoria grimaced. "She comes to the castle almost daily. I'm running out of hiding spots."
"I can't prevent her from seeing her daughter," McGonagall sighed.
"We just need somewhere to lie low," Astoria said. "A break from her."
Harry mulled over Daphne's request. Sharing the house wouldn’t be an issue, but there was a chance they would discover his investigation into the Mundanes. He would have to ensure that he kept all information concerning the investigation in his office where they couldn’t enter.
"Grimmauld Place has plenty of room," Harry said. "Though you'll have to put up with some spirited occupants."
"Who—" Daphne began, but Zephyr chose that moment to materialise in front of them and ruffle Astoria's hair. She giggled, trying to catch the playful spirit between her palms.
"That kind," Harry said.
"One more condition." Daphne's tone turned serious.
"Who's hiring who now?"
"I want access to the Black Library." Her eyes flicked to Astoria. "It's important. I'll waive my tutoring fees."
"Deal—as long as you explain why."
Daphne hesitated. "I will explain once we get there."
Harry nodded. “Give me a few hours to get the house organised and I will return to take you there”
Kaze materialised beside Harry as he strode back to the headmaster's office, the spirit's ethereal features twisted with barely suppressed mirth.
"Female guests?" Kaze's voice rippled with amusement. "What would your red-haired admirer think?"
"Hilarious," Harry muttered, quickening his pace.
"Multiple female companions were quite common in my day—"
"Shut it."
"You certainly have a large enough bed."
Harry spun to face the spirit. "They need help, and I'm offering it. That's all."
"Of course." Kaze's form shimmered with silent laughter. "Though the blonde one has quite the sharp tongue. Better put that to good—”
A gust of wind scattered Kaze's form like mist. The spirit reformed, radiating indignation.
"Was that really necessary?"
"Keep talking and I'll do worse."
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
The Greengrass sisters moved into Grimmauld Place that evening, their arrival sparking an immediate transformation in Kreacher. The ancient house-elf, typically disdainful of guests, fawned over the pure-blood sisters with unprecedented enthusiasm, attending to their every need with zealous dedication.
Once settled, Daphne confided in Harry about Astoria's Blood malediction—a generational curse flowing through their bloodline, slowly poisoning her sister from within. While the Blacks held no responsibility for the curse, their notorious habit of collecting dark magic from other families, through both trade and theft, gave Daphne hope of finding answers in their library. She acknowledged the slim chances but refused to leave any possibility unexplored in her quest to save Astoria.
Harry felt sorry for Astoria and gave Daphne access to the library. He didn’t need to worry about her stealing something, as Grimmauld had protections against it. He bade Kreacher to help her avoid being cursed by one of the many cursed books hidden on the shelves.
Their NEWT preparation began in earnest. Harry demonstrated considerable practical skill but struggled with magical theory. Despite the daunting workload and tight two-week deadline, Daphne expressed confidence in his ability to succeed with dedicated effort.
Ayano's regular visits over the following week initially carried an undercurrent of tension. Though she never expressed her displeasure with the sisters' presence, her discomfort was evident in subtle ways. This reserve gradually thawed through repeated interactions. Astoria's natural warmth particularly won her over, while Daphne maintained a polite but measured distance in their growing acquaintance.
"I have news from home," Ayano said on her fourth visit. "For your ears only."
Harry led her into his study. Kreacher appeared with some refreshments and served them before disappearing again.
"What's going on?" Harry asked.
"The McDonald family has taken an interest in you after your heroic stunt," Ayano said. "My father just informed me."
"And they are?"
"Enjutsu users like my clan, from America. They control fire, but differently. The McDonald family can merge multiple fire spirits into one. The constructs have some autonomy but are mostly controlled by the user. The family heir, Catherine, has control of most of the spirits, which makes for some powerful constructs."
Harry frowned. "So they're coming to England."
"Catherine's already on her way to England," Ayano confirmed.
"What's she like?"
Ayano's nose wrinkled. "Met her once. Arrogant, boastful. Her family’s wealth and power went to her head."
"Reminds me of someone," Harry said, lips twitching.
Ayano ignored the jab. "She'll try to form an alliance with you."
"Bloody wind." Harry raked fingers through his hair. "Not the same way your father suggested, I hope."
"It's possible."
A sudden shift in the air made Harry stiffen. One of his wind spirits whispered urgent news that had adrenaline surging through his veins.
"I have to go." He bolted from the room, leaving Ayano staring after him.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The living room felt almost too quiet after Harry's abrupt departure. Daphne sat curled in a corner of the sofa, a heavy tome balanced on her knees. The book's cover depicted writhing figures in various states of agony. Ayano suppressed a shudder as she sank into an armchair.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
Daphne's head snapped up. She slammed the book shut, fingers white against the worn leather binding. "Would you even understand if I explained?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're not a witch." Daphne's eyes narrowed. "But you're not a Muggle either. This house has protections against them. Harry could have done something to let you enter but I don’t think that’s the case."
"How do you know I'm not a witch?"
Instead of answering, Daphne tapped the book's cover. "I'm searching for a counter-curse to an ancient curse. Without knowing the original spell, removing it seems impossible."
"Your kind created such vicious magic." Ayano traced patterns on the armrest. "Magic should be wonderful, not twisted into darkness. Are you the one who's cursed?"
"My sister."
"I'm sorry."
Ayano wasn’t a stranger to curses. There were plenty scattered throughout Japan, mostly in ancient sites and burial grounds. The Kannagi family’s fire had the unique property of being able to purify Yokai—Japan's supernatural monsters and spirits that plagued Tokyo. It was their responsibility to remove them before they could harm innocent people.
But the flames could also purify curses from people. Ayano remembered stories of her great-grandmother healing a cursed wizard. But each curse was different, and their flames weren't gentle. Using them without proper knowledge could cause more harm than good.
She caught herself wondering about ways to help and pushed the thought aside. She barely knew these sisters. Yet something in Daphne's rigid posture, in the desperate way she poured through dark texts, pulled at her. She would need to consult her family first. Until then, her desire to help would have to wait.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Eurus—the wind spirit named for the ancient Greek wind deity of the east—brought word of James Fletcher's location. After searching for so long, the missing Squib had surfaced in a run-down council estate in Peckham.
Harry appeared in the dim corridor outside Fletcher's bedsit. Peeling wallpaper and the stench of boiled cabbage assaulted his senses. Water stains crept down walls like urban ivy. Through the thin door, he heard muttering and the rustle of paper.
Fletcher hunched over a cluttered desk, illuminated by a single bare bulb. Newspaper clippings wallpapered the room—magical incidents, unexplained phenomena, conspiracy theories about memory loss. Red string connected the articles in a web of obsession. Empty whiskey bottles littered the floor.
Before Fletcher noticed the intrusion, Harry cast an Incarcerous spell that bound the man to the chair with ropes. The man's bloodshot eyes widened when he saw the intruder.
Harry's eyes shifted crimson as he unleashed the Black Wind. Fletcher's mind offered no resistance—memories cascaded like autumn leaves. A bitter child watching siblings leave for Hogwarts. Years of isolation from both magical and Muggle worlds. Drinking away disappointment in dingy pubs. Meeting others who shared his resentment. But nothing concrete about the Mundanes' leadership or plans.
Frustration boiled over. The winds responded, rattling windows and scattering Fletcher's precious clippings. The man whimpered as pressure built in the room.
A sharp crack pierced the tension. Harry spun as a wizard materialised—a young man wearing dark robes. He raised his wand and fired a curse at Harry.
Harry's wind barrier deflected it into the wall, leaving a scorched crater. The wizard's second spell died on his lips as compressed air slammed him against the peeling wallpaper. His wand clattered across stained floorboards.
Darkness pulsed behind Harry's eyes. The Black Wind howled for release, eager to tear through another mind. He advanced on the prone wizard, crimson gaze burning brighter with each step.
"Control yourself," Kaze materialised, his form rippling like heat waves. "Anger makes the ability unstable. Take a minute to calm down."
Harry's chest heaved as he fought for control. Three deep breaths. Five. Seven. The crimson dimmed slightly. When his hands stopped shaking, he reached for the wizard's memories.
This time, clarity. A wood-panelled office overlooking the Thames. Behind a mahogany desk sat a man in his fifties with steel-grey immaculate hair. He spoke with quiet authority about the next phase of operations. The window view placed the office—Canary Wharf, thirty-eighth floor of the Morgan Stanley building.
Harry released the wizard, who slumped unconscious to the floor.
"I'm coming for you, you bastards.”
So, what do you think? In the next chapter, Harry tracks down the Mundanes' leader.
Thanks for reading.
