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The Wind Mage's Legacy: Chapter 9
🕑 Added 2024-11-06 09:05:10 +0000 UTCHi all,
Here’s the next chapter. Harry has to deal with the aftermath as his heroics are exposed to the world.
Chapter 9
The Boeing 747's massive frame shuddered violently beneath Harry's wind barrier. Hydraulic fluid leaked from the mangled left wing in a fine mist, the metal framework exposed where the explosion had torn away chunks of the fuselage. His muscles screamed in protest as he channelled more power into keeping the 400-tonne aircraft aloft.
Row after row of faces pressed against the oval windows, expressions ranging from terror to disbelief as they watched him glide through the darkness. He couldn't hide his presence; maintaining visual contact with the damaged wing proved crucial for preventing total catastrophe.
A deafening crack split the night air. Another section of the wing tore free, spinning away into the darkness. The plane lurched violently to the left, the sudden movement nearly breaking his concentration. Harry poured more power into the wind to correct the plane’s flight, his hands trembling from the immense strain.
"Your body will tear apart if you overuse your abilities," Kaze shouted over the howling wind. "The human form has limits!"
"You're telling me this now?" Harry snarled through clenched teeth, veins standing out on his neck from the effort. "When I find the bastards who did this..."
His eyes blazed crimson as rage bubbled up from deep within. Dark winds began swirling around his body like a deadly hurricane, and his control started slipping away. A sharp gust from Kaze cracked across his face like a physical slap.
"Focus! You don't have time to get angry. These people need you now!"
The empty field stretched below like a dark canvas, illuminated only by the aircraft's remaining navigation lights. Harry's enhanced vision picked out hazards—a partially collapsed stone wall, scattered farm equipment, and uneven ground that could tear the landing gear to shreds. They had one shot at this. No room for error.
He wove the winds into massive, invisible guide rails, each current precisely calibrated to cradle the aircraft's descent. The plane fought him like a wounded beast, its damaged wing creating dangerous instability. Sweat trickled into his eyes as he compensated for each shudder and roll, drawing on power reserves he didn't know he possessed.
"Thirty seconds to touchdown," Kaze warned. "The approach angle is too steep!"
Harry snarled with effort, forcing more power into the wind barrier. The ground rushed up faster than he'd planned. He couldn't slow their descent enough—the landing gear would snap on impact.
At the last possible moment, he created a cushion of compressed air beneath the landing gear. The wheels struck the earth with a muffled crack that echoed across the field, but the wind had prevented them from collapsing. Metal shrieked as the massive plane bounced violently, its nose pitching upward.
The second impact drove the landing gear deep into the soft earth. The plane lurched forward, ploughing a deep furrow across the field. Harry flew alongside, arms outstretched as he poured wind from his palms. The drag slowed the plane’s momentum, but not fast enough.
The wall of trees loomed ahead, a solid mass of trunks that would tear the aircraft apart. Harry's heart hammered against his ribs as he pushed beyond his limits. Blood trickled from his nose, but he couldn't spare the concentration to wipe it away. Just a little more...
With a final surge of effort, Harry brought the massive aircraft to a shuddering halt. The nose cone stopped barely three metres from the nearest tree trunk. Steam hissed from the ruined engines, mixing with the cool night air.
Cheers and sobs of relief erupted from within the cabin; the sounds muffled but distinct. Harry caught a glimpse of Ron's pale face through a window, still cradling an unconscious Hermione. Their eyes met briefly before he vanished into the darkness. He needed to leave before further questions were asked.
Inside the cabin, James Morton lowered his camcorder with trembling hands. He'd filmed documentaries in war zones and natural disasters, but nothing compared to what he'd just witnessed. The tiny screen showed a dark-robed figure flying alongside the plane. The footage was grainy in the low light but clear enough to make out the figure with the hood over his face.
James didn’t know what the mysterious figure did, but he must have been responsible for saving the plane. He was no fool. As soon as the explosion sounded and the plane pitched down, he knew they weren’t going to survive the crash.
“Perhaps the kid had it right,” he murmured. “It really was Superman.”
Morton quickly grabbed his bag from the overhead compartment and put the camera away. By sunrise, this footage would play on the morning news and cause an uproar.
From his seat, Ron cradled an unconscious Hermione, blood still trickling from the gash on her forehead. He watched his best friend disappear into the darkness.
"Bloody hell," he whispered, gently brushing hair from Hermione's face. "He's going to have a hard time explaining this one to the Ministry. I better contact them so they can clean up this mess."
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
A sharp crack jolted Harry from sleep.
"Master Harry must wake. Intruders have breached the house."
Harry bolted upright, muscles screaming in protest. His body felt like he'd wrestled a Hungarian Horntail, every movement sending daggers of pain through his limbs.
“Good morning to you, Kreacher.”
“It’s already the afternoon.”
Harry scrubbed a hand over his face. "I had a really busy night."
"Shall Kreacher dispose of them?" The house elf's gnarled fingers twitched. "Kreacher knows many ways to remove unwanted guests."
"Who's here?"
The gleam in Kreacher's eyes suggested he hoped Harry would permit him to punish the intruders. Before he could respond, Hermione burst into Harry's bedroom like a whirlwind, with Ron trailing behind. Harry shot his friend a questioning look but Ron merely shrugged, dark circles under his eyes suggesting a sleepless night.
"Have you completely lost your mind?" Hermione paced the length of the room, her hair even wilder than usual. "Flying alongside a commercial aircraft? In full view of hundreds of Muggles?"
"Good morning to you too," Harry muttered. "How are you doing?"
Hermione paused mid-stride, her finger still raised mid-lecture. "I'm fine—just a mild concussion. But you're in serious trouble."
"No need to thank me for saving your life or anything,” Harry said. “It’s not like I nearly tore myself apart keeping that plane from crashing."
Her expression softened, righteous anger deflating. She crossed to the bed and wrapped him in a fierce hug.
"Thank you," she whispered against his shoulder. When Ron didn't move, she pulled back and kicked his shin.
"Ow! What was that for?" Ron hopped on one foot, rubbing his leg. Seeing Hermione’s expression, he added hastily. "Yeah, thanks, mate. Brilliant flying. Saved our arses, you did."
"Now that's sorted, want to tell me what's got you so worked up?" Harry asked, stifling a yawn.
Hermione thrust a newspaper at him, her hands trembling slightly. The Guardian's headline jumped off the page in bold black letters: "MYSTERY HERO PREVENTS AIR DISASTER.”
Harry's stomach dropped as his eyes scanned the accompanying photo—a blurry still from video footage showing a dark figure flying alongside the aircraft wing. "Bloody wind."
"Someone filmed you," Hermione explained, resuming her pacing. "It's all over the morning news—BBC, Sky News, every major network. Every major newspaper. The Ministry can't contain it—it's spread too far, too fast."
"But the Obliviators-"
"Were there," Ron cut in, perching on Harry's bed. "But they didn't check for cameras, did they? Just modified memories and sent everyone home. The bloke must have found the footage after his memory was wiped. Now he's telling everyone his memories don't match what he recorded. It's causing a mess right now."
"The footage is grainy but clear enough," Hermione added, biting her lower lip. "It shows someone flying without any visible means of support, manipulating the very air itself. The scientific community is in an uproar."
Harry scanned the article, his heart sinking further with each paragraph:
MYSTERY HERO PREVENTS AIR DISASTER
By Richard Matthews
Special Correspondent
In what witnesses describe as an "impossible feat," an unidentified figure saved British Airways Flight 178 from certain destruction last night after an explosion damaged the aircraft's wing during its ascent from Heathrow Airport.
James Morton, 42, an acclaimed documentary filmmaker, captured extraordinary footage of what appears to be a person in dark robes flying alongside the crippled aircraft. The video, authenticated by multiple experts, shows the figure seemingly controlling the plane's descent through unknown means, guiding it to a safe landing in a Berkshire field.
"I know it sounds utterly mad," Morton stated in an exclusive interview. "But I saw it with my own eyes—well, I think I did. My memories are strangely fuzzy, but the camera doesn't lie. Something or someone saved us using abilities that defy explanation."
Aviation experts remain baffled by how the Boeing 747 landed safely with catastrophic wing damage. Initial reports suggest an explosion compromised the left wing's structural integrity, a situation that should have resulted in an unsurvivable crash.
More troubling are reports from multiple passengers who claim their memories of the event feel "altered" or "incomplete." Several psychiatric experts have been consulted regarding this mass phenomenon, leading to speculation about collective trauma response or possible government intervention.
British Airways and civil aviation authorities decline to comment on the ongoing investigation. However, sources close to the inquiry suggest the incident has drawn attention from multiple government agencies, including military intelligence.
The footage, while grainy, has been authenticated by several independent experts who confirm no signs of digital manipulation. This leaves authorities struggling to explain not only how the aircraft was saved but also the identity and abilities of the mysterious figure who accomplished this seemingly impossible feat.
As theories continue to circulate online and in scientific communities, one question dominates public discourse: Who—or what—is Britain's flying hero? And why are so many witnesses reporting conflicting memories of their miraculous salvation?
Harry lowered the newspaper, pages crinkling in his clenched fists. "I really fucked up. The Obliviators should have cleaned this mess up—it's their bloody job."
"Even if there was no footage, people would still ask questions," Hermione said. "A commercial aircraft surviving catastrophic wing damage? Landing perfectly in a field without a single casualty? The aviation investigation alone would raise countless red flags."
"What choice did I have?" Harry snapped, throwing back his covers. "Let the plane crash? Watch you both die? Should I have just rolled over and gone back to sleep?"
Ron cleared his throat. "Well, I'm sure Hermione would've saved everyone if she hadn't gotten knocked out."
Hermione ignored his comment and focused on Harry. "Speaking of which—how exactly did you know the plane was in trouble so quickly after takeoff? The explosion happened a few minutes after we left Heathrow."
A sudden gust of wind interrupted her interrogation as Zephyr burst into the room. The playful spirit paused at Hermione's bushy hair, seemingly fascinated by its wild state. It began weaving through her curls like an invisible kitten, creating small cyclones that made her hair dance.
"Would you care to explain this?" Hermione asked, trying to maintain her stern expression despite the invisible force turning her hair into a nest of moving serpents.
"Wind elementals. They've taken up residence here." Harry gestured vaguely at the air where Zephyr continued its exploration of Hermione's hair. "They monitor things for me. Warned me about the plane before the bomb exploded."
Hermione's expression suggested she didn't quite believe him, but she held back her questions. Her forehead creased as she sighed. "Rather unlucky though, wasn't it? Boarding a plane that happened to have a bomb attached."
Harry's eyes flashed crimson, the temperature in the room dropping several degrees. Dark winds began swirling around his clenched fists, and the windows rattled ominously in their frames.
Ron and Hermione recoiled, stumbling back several steps. Even Zephyr retreated from Hermione's hair, seeking shelter behind a bookshelf.
"Bloody hell, mate," Ron whispered, his face pale. "You alright? Your eyes..."
Harry closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths. His chest rose and fell as he fought to control the darkness threatening to overwhelm him. The Black Wind whispered seductively in his mind, promising power and vengeance. Slowly, like a tide pulling back from shore, the darkness receded. When he opened his eyes again, they had returned to their usual emerald green.
"Meet me in the dining room," he said. "We need to talk about what's going on. But first, I need a shower."
Ron and Hermione exchanged glances before retreating from the room.
“I will prepare some lunch for Master,” Kreacher said.
“For my friends as well.”
A pause. “If I must.”
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Harry descended the stairs, towelling his damp hair. The sound of Hermione's rapid-fire questions reached him before he entered the dining room. His stomach dropped when he spotted Ayano seated at the table with Ron and Hermione.
"Don't interrogate my guest, Hermione."
Hermione shot him an annoyed look. "I was just curious about your new friend, Harry. You haven't mentioned her before."
"Well, we have only known each other for a short time."
"What's this about your heroics last night?" Ayano asked, arms crossed. "Regina woke me up with the news."
Harry dropped into a chair, his muscles still protesting from last night's ordeal. "What I'm about to tell you stays in this room." He glanced at each face around the table, making sure they understood the gravity of his words. "The Crown recruited me to investigate a group calling themselves the Mundanes. They are a terrorist group who are aware of our world. They intend to use the knowledge to pressure the government into meeting their demands."
“They’re responsible for the bomb,” Hermione whispered.
Harry’s jaw clenched. "Last night wasn't a random attack. They targeted that specific flight because my two best friends were on board. A warning shot, telling me to back off."
"They're escalating," he continued, voice rough. "Started with small explosions, property damage. Now they're willing to kill hundreds of innocent people just to send me a message.”
Hermione's face had gone pale, while Ron's freckles stood out starkly against his whitened skin.
"How did someone plant a bomb on the wing without being noticed?" Hermione leaned forward, brow furrowed. "The security at Heathrow-"
"They must have wizards working with them," Harry cut in. "At least one, maybe more."
"But how did they know we'd be on that flight?"
Harry's lips tightened. "They must be watching you."
Ron swore colourfully. Hermione nodded, her face set with determination. "Right. I'll help with the investigation—"
"No." Harry's tone left no room for argument. "You and Ron are taking the next International Portkey to Australia. Stay there until this is sorted."
They both started to protest, but Harry slammed his hand on the table. "It's my fault they targeted you. I'm not risking your lives again."
"He's awfully stubborn, isn't he?" Ayano remarked. "Must be frustrating."
"Tell me about it," Hermione replied, eyeing the girl carefully. "Are you leaving as well? Since you're close—"
"Leave it alone, Hermione," Harry warned. "Ayano can protect herself better than you two. She's free to leave whenever she wants."
Ayano smirked. "And miss all the fun? Besides, I can't abandon a potential ally when he's in trouble."
Hermione turned to Harry, silently demanding an explanation.
Harry sighed. "There are things I'm keeping from you, but they'll have to wait. When you return from Australia, I will tell you what’s going on.”
His friends nodded reluctantly.
"By the way," Ron added, "Dad says you're in trouble with the Ministry. Kingsley wants to speak to you. Have you received any mail yet?"
Harry glanced at Kreacher, who'd just entered with some plates of food. "Any mail?"
The house elf nodded.
"Why didn’t you tell me earlier?"
"Master was asleep."
Harry grimaced. "Brilliant. The Muggle government's probably after me too. What a mess."
"Kreacher can take care of it for Master." The elf's eyes gleamed dangerously.
Ron grinned. "He'll sort all your problems, right, mate?"
"Harry, you can't use Kreacher like that!" Hermione exclaimed.
Harry's head thumped onto the table. This day couldn't end soon enough.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Harry strode through the Ministry atrium, reporters swarming around him like angry hornets. Camera flashes exploded around him while Quick-Quotes Quills scratched frantically against hovering notepads. Their questions blended into meaningless noise as he used subtle wind currents to create space around himself.
"Mr Potter, what were you doing flying alongside that Muggle aircraft?"
"Is it true you can fly without a broom?"
"Do you think you should be charged for breaking the Statute of Secrecy?"
Several Ministry workers tried to intercept him but wilted under his cold stare. When the more persistent pursuers continued to badger him, he used his wind to push them away.
The secretary outside Kingsley's office physically jumped when he approached, nearly knocking over her inkwell. "I'm here to see the minister."
She scrambled to open the door, hands trembling. Her eyes wouldn't meet his—another person who'd read too many Prophet articles about his supposed dark lord status.
Inside, Kingsley sat with an elderly wizard at his mahogany desk.
"You've really done it this time, Harry." Kingsley's deep voice carried a note of resignation.
Harry dropped into a chair without invitation. Kingsley gestured to his companion, who wore elaborate purple robes with silver trim. "This is Tiberius Ogden, temporary Head of Magical Law Enforcement."
"My nephew has quite a lot to say about you, Mr Potter," Tiberius said, studying Harry with shrewd eyes. “None of it flattering.”
"And who's your nephew?"
"Cormac McLaggen."
Harry snorted. "That explains it. Is he still a massive prick?"
Tiberius's weathered face cracked into a grin. "Unfortunately so. The boy never learnt humility."
Kingsley cleared his throat. "Your actions last night, Harry. Explain."
Harry recounted the events, carefully omitting any mention of the Crown or the Mundanes. He described discovering the plane in trouble, realising his friends were aboard, and making the split-second decision to intervene.
"Surely there was another way," Kingsley pressed. "Something less... visible."
"There wasn't time," Harry said flatly. "The plane was going down.”
Tiberius leaned forward, his chair creaking. "You should have let it crash. The Statute of Secrecy protects our entire world. A few hundred Muggle lives don't outweigh that."
Harry's eyes flashed. "I don't regret saving them and I don’t like your callous attitude. The lives of Muggles are just as valuable as those of witches and wizards.”
Tiberius snorted. “Have you taken a census lately? I beg to differ.”
A timid knock interrupted them. The secretary poked her head in. "Minister, the Wizengamot is assembling. They're demanding to start."
Kingsley stood, straightening his purple robes. "They want to question you about potential criminal charges, Harry. This is serious."
A vicious grin spread across Harry's face, making the secretary flinch. "If you think I'm going to let a bunch of old bastards charge me for breaching the Statute, think again." His gaze locked onto Kingsley. "Are you going to allow that?"
Kingsley spread his hands defensively. "It's not my decision. The Minister's power has limits. The Wizengamot will decide regardless of my input."
"I see. So you're a spineless coward."
"Give us something to work with, Mr Potter," Tiberius cut in, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "A defence that will satisfy the old bastards, as you put it.”
Harry leaned back, projecting confidence he didn't entirely feel. "Yes, the Muggles are in an uproar. But they've got no way of confirming magic exists. They'll come up with a dozen other explanations first—advanced military technology, science experiments, aliens—anything but the truth. The Statute remains secure."
Kingsley nodded slowly, though worry lines creased his forehead. "Let's hope the Wizengamot sees it that way."
They walked in silence to the courtroom. Harry strode in, his footsteps echoing across the dark stone floor of Courtroom Ten. Torchlight flickered across the walls, casting dancing shadows over the sea of plum-coloured robes filling the tiered benches.
Several wizards and witches leapt to their feet immediately.
"He should be confined to the chair!" A wizard shouted, jabbing a finger towards the iron chains that clinked ominously in response to the magic saturating the room. "Like any other criminal brought before us!"
"Hear, hear!" echoed several others.
Harry's gaze swept across them coldly, his eyes shifting to azure blue for a brief moment. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Though no wind stirred in the chamber, the protestors hesitated before sinking back into their seats, suddenly less certain of themselves.
"Where has all your bluster gone, Parkinson?" Madam Longbottom asked. "Some may think you are afraid of Mr Potter."
Parkinson scowled at her as several members laughed.
Harry’s eyebrows rose. This was Pansy’s father? Although he wasn't an outright Death Eater, it didn’t mean he didn’t support Voldemort’s movement. However, he was biased because of Pansy's actions. It may be that he was just an unpleasant individual.
Elias Doge stood at the central podium, his deep purple robes emblazoned with silver trim marking his position as Chief Warlock. "If any member wishes to question Mr Potter, raise your wand. We will proceed in an orderly fashion."
For the next hour, Harry fielded questions from the assembled Wizengamot. The interrogation ranged from enquiries about his abilities to thinly veiled accusations of deliberately exposing their world. He noticed quite a few supporters among them, including Griselda Marchbanks, Madam Longbottom, and several members of traditionally light families like the Macmillan and Abbotts.
His attention caught on a handful of surprisingly young faces—former Hogwarts students who must have inherited their seats. Anthony Goldstein sat where his grandfather once presided, while Susan Bones occupied her aunt Amelia's former position. The war's casualties had forced early succession in many cases. Their faces carried a maturity beyond their years, tempered by loss and responsibility thrust upon them too soon.
"The footage shows no recognisable spells," Harry argued, addressing yet another question about the Statute. "What I did doesn't resemble anything like standard magic. No wands, no incantations, no typical magical effects. The Muggles have no reason to connect it to our world."
"Mr Potter is our saviour!" declared Augusta Longbottom, her stuffed-vulture hat wobbling as she rose from her seat. "He already deserves the Merlin First Class for his defeat of You-Know-Who. Surely allowances can be made?"
The chamber erupted into a heated debate. Wands sparked with emphasis as members argued their points. Harry waited patiently as they argued about precedent and special treatment, their voices echoing off the stone walls for nearly ten minutes. He noticed how the younger members largely remained silent, watching the proceedings with wide eyes.
When the noise died down, he could see his earlier reasoning hadn't fully convinced them. Several of the old guard, particularly those from traditionally isolationist families, still wore expressions of stern disapproval.
"I propose a solution," he said, his voice cutting through the lingering murmurs. "I'll work with the Muggle government to create a plausible cover story. One that protects the Statute while explaining what witnesses saw."
He didn't mention his connection to the Crown as that would only complicate matters.
Murmurs rippled through the chamber as the members discussed his offer. The younger members seemed particularly interested. Finally, Kingsley called for a vote on whether to pursue charges.
Harry's expression remained neutral as the golden flames that tallied the votes flickered in the air. He'd narrowly avoided prosecution, with a margin of just seven votes. The close result surprised him.
He scanned the faces of those who'd voted against him, noting their poorly concealed fear beneath masks of righteous indignation. Perhaps his status as the defeater of Voldemort had worked against him this time. He'd dismantled the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters with powers they couldn't comprehend. He had now demonstrated even more mysterious abilities, achieving feats that shouldn’t be possible.
His abilities fell outside their carefully maintained system of power. He represented something beyond their ability to control, regulate, or match.
Not that it truly mattered—he wouldn't have accepted their authority to imprison him. If they'd voted differently, he would have simply left. The thought almost made him smile; magical Britain wasn't the only wizarding community in the world, and he could easily survive in the Muggle one.
"This session is concluded," Kingsley announced, bringing down his gavel with a resonating crack that echoed through the chamber. As the members began to file out, Harry caught several calculating looks from both allies and opponents. They might have voted against charging him, but he knew this wouldn't be the end of their scrutiny.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Harry slipped through a hidden entrance in Buckingham Palace's east wing, guided by a grey-haired senior aide who moved with practised silence through the ornate corridors.
Outside, the crowds pressed against the black iron gates, their chants echoing across the perfectly manicured grounds. Police lined the perimeter, their faces tense as they maintained order. Some protesters waved handmade banners demanding answers, while others simply waited with cameras ready, hoping to catch a glimpse of Britain's mysterious saviour. News helicopters circled overhead like persistent wasps.
He'd spent the morning in Grimmauld Place reviewing coverage about himself. Every news channel buzzed with theories and speculation. BBC News ran continuous coverage, while American networks like CNN broadcast live from London's streets. Some called him a symbol of hope, a guardian angel in human form. The tabloids ran grainy stills from the video footage, their headlines screaming for answers. The conspiracy theories grew wilder by the hour—the most popular being that he was an extraterrestrial, and the government used alien technology to modify witness memories.
His stomach churned at their expectations. They'd created a hero in their minds, someone who'd swoop in to save them from every disaster, every tragedy, and every moment of human suffering. The weight of their hope felt suffocating. When he failed to appear at the next tragedy—a car crash, a burning building, a sinking boat—they'd turn on him just as quickly. He'd seen it happen before with the wizarding world's fickle opinions.
He should have come yesterday as requested, but he'd been too focused on hunting the Mundanes. After they attempt on Ron and Hermione's lives, every hour spent away from the investigation feels wasted.
They arrived at a comfortable sitting room where the Queen waited. She gestured for him to sit in a burgundy armchair as she poured tea from a silver service with practised grace.
"The Americans are particularly persistent," she said, passing him a delicate bone china cup. "The President was not pleased when I claimed ignorance about your identity during our call yesterday. And MACUSA has made several enquiries through their usual channels about the source of your abilities. They seem... concerned about the implications."
"You're in contact with MACUSA?"
"Cooperation becomes necessary at times. The magical and non-magical worlds intersect more often than either side admits. Now, tell me about the incident."
Harry explained the bomb and his theory that the Mundanes were targeting his friends. About how he acted without thinking about the consequences because he didn’t have time to consider alternative options. He also told her about his tense encounter with the Wizengamot. The Queen nodded as he spoke, her expression grave but unsurprised.
"The timing is too precise to be a coincidence," she agreed, setting her cup down. "What do you suggest we do about this situation to appease the public?"
Harry smiled slightly. "My friend Hermione thinks I should give the people what they want."
"Meaning?"
"They want to believe I'm an alien. Perhaps I should let them. Their own imaginations will do most of the work for us."
The Queen leaned back in her chair, considering. "That might satisfy the public, but my allies won't accept such a simple explanation. The Americans, in particular, will investigate independently. Their intelligence agencies are already analysing the footage."
"Let me worry about them," Harry said firmly. "Just make a statement denying knowledge of my identity. Say you're searching for answers like everyone else. Express appropriate concern about national security while emphasising that I seem to be helping rather than threatening people."
She sipped her tea in silence, weighing his words. Her eyes, sharp despite her age, studied him carefully. Finally, she spoke with resignation. "You'll need to convince the public first. How do you plan to accomplish that?"
"I'm still working out the details," Harry admitted. "But I thought I'd start with a public appearance. Something to calm the chaos outside. Give them something to focus their attention on besides storming government buildings."
The queen's lips curved slightly. "Very well.”
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
The crowds pressed against the palace gates, their numbers having swelled to several thousand. Police officers linked arms in human chains, struggling to maintain order as the crowd surged forward in waves.
Hand-painted banners bobbed above the sea of heads: "Show Yourself Hero!" "We Believe!" "Thank You for Saving Flight 178!"
A group of university students had rigged up speakers, blasting the Superman theme music into the air. Religious zealots clutched crucifixes and shouted about divine intervention, while amateur photographers gripped their cameras with sweaty hands, hoping for the shot that would make them famous.
The autumn air crackled with anticipation. Even the police seemed to be watching the skies more than the crowd.
A sonic boom shattered the afternoon calm, the sound rolling across London like thunder. Thousands of heads snapped upward in unison, a collective gasp rising from the crowd.
A figure in an emerald cape materialised from the clouds, the sun catching the fabric and making it shimmer like liquid glass. Harry let the wind carry him low enough for the crowd to see him clearly—a calculated risk but necessary for the effect he needed to create. He skimmed the rooftops of Buckingham Palace, his cape billowing dramatically behind him. The dark winds responded to his will, lifting him higher and then bringing him down in a graceful arc that carried him around the Victoria Memorial.
Dozens of cameras clicked frantically, their sounds almost lost in the roar of the crowd. News crews swung their heavy broadcast cameras skyward, desperate to capture footage of Britain's mysterious saviour. The cheering reached a fever pitch, becoming almost painful in its intensity.
"Look! Up there!"
"My God, he's real!"
"He's flying! Actually flying!"
A deep voice from somewhere in the crowd began shouting "TEMPEST!" Others took up the cry, the name rippling through the masses like a wave. Within seconds, thousands of voices chanted in unison, the sound bouncing off the palace walls and echoing down the street.
"TEM-PEST! TEM-PEST! TEM-PEST!".
The crowd's chanting followed him as he disappeared into the clouds, the name they'd chosen echoing in his ears like an omen.
Tempest. How fitting that they'd named him after a force of destruction.
So, what do you think? In the next chapter, Harry chooses a Quidditch team and finds a lead that brings him closer to uncovering the Mundanes.
Thanks for reading.
