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The Wind Mage's Legacy: Chapter 8
🕑 Added 2024-10-25 07:46:01 +0000 UTCHi all,
Here’s the next chapter. Harry learns about the new Quidditch rules, and another mundane attack is launched against his friends.
Chapter 8
Harry returned to Grimmauld Place after meeting with Ayano. He could hardly believe that he had invited her to dinner. Their acquaintance was still fresh, and the house was still a mess. Although Kreeacher had been cleaning the place, the old house elf didn’t have the energy to transform such a large place in such a short amount of time.
A crash from the back garden startled him. He rushed through the house, only to stop dead at the kitchen window.
Chaos reigned in his garden. Leaves and debris whirled in tight cyclones, branches snapped from trees, and his garden furniture cartwheeled through the air. Five translucent forms twisted and spun at the centre of the mayhem, their ethereal shapes distorting the afternoon light.
“What the hell?” Harry exited through the back door to get a closer look at the chaos.
"Stop this nonsense at once!" Kaze materialised beside Harry, his voice sharp as a winter gale.
The spirits froze. Various items dropped from the sky, pelting the ground like hail. Five heads turned toward Kaze, then rushed forward in a collective whoosh of air.
They swirled around their king, radiating joy and relief. Harry couldn't hear words, but their emotions washed over him in waves—excitement, curiosity, mischief. The smallest one buzzed with barely contained energy, while the largest moved with deliberate grace.
"These are the remaining wind spirits left in the world," Kaze said.
Harry could sense Kaze's delight in their presence, even if he spoke like a strict grandfather reprimanding his mischievous grandchildren.
The spirits turned their attention to Harry, encircling him in a whirlwind that ruffled his clothes and hair. Their curiosity tickled at his consciousness—wondering about the human who contracted with their king.
"You can stay here," Harry said, attempting to sound authoritative despite the smallest spirit playing with his hair. "But no more destroying my garden."
A collective gust of wind buffeted him, carrying their displeasure. They pressed closer, their forms brushing against him like cool silk.
"They want more than shelter," Kaze explained, amusement colouring his voice. "They wish to contract with you."
Harry stiffened. "I've already got one wind spirit. Isn't that enough?"
"They're the last of their kind," Kaze said softly. "Safer bound to you than wandering alone."
Harry ran a hand through his wind-tossed hair. "Will it be like our contract?"
"Similar, but less intense. They're lesser spirits—they'll augment your abilities without changing you as I do."
The spirits waited, their forms shifting hopefully. The smallest one performed loop-the-loops around his head, while the largest hovered with dignified patience.
"Alright," Harry sighed. "What do I need to do?"
The spirits surged forward as one, their ethereal forms merging with his body like cool mist seeping into his skin. Harry gasped as their essences settled within him, five distinct presences joining Kaze's familiar weight in his consciousness.
Each spirit felt different—the playful one buzzed like spring breezes, while another rumbled like distant thunder. Their personalities remained distinct even as their power merged with his.
The contract was a lot less formal and demanding than the one he initiated with Kaze. It would have been tiresome having to repeat that nonsense another five more times.
"Well," Harry said, flexing his fingers as new power thrummed through him. "This should make life more interesting."
The smallest spirit, already his most rambunctious contractor, responded by knocking over his garden gnome.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Harry stepped into the dining room. The ancient chandelier cast dancing shadows over a feast that would have impressed even Molly Weasley. Kreacher had outdone himself —platters of roasted duck glistened with honey glaze, herb-crusted potatoes steamed in silver dishes, and seasonal vegetables arranged with surprising artistry filled the long table.
The elderly house-elf bowed so low that his nose brushed the floor. "Dinner is served, Master Harry." His bulbous eyes darted to Ayano, who stood examining a tapestry. "And Master's... guest."
Harry caught the hesitation. "Thank you, Kreacher. It looks excellent."
Ayano turned from the tapestry, her crimson hair catching the candlelight. She'd changed from her earlier battle-worn outfit into a simple black dress that seemed at odds with her fierce demeanour.
"I expected something more traditional," she said, sliding into the high-backed chair Harry pulled out. "No bangers and mash?"
Harry settled across from her. "Been studying British cuisine?"
"Regina insisted I try everything." Ayano wrinkled her nose, reaching for the wine Kreacher poured. "It’s an acquired taste that I don’t think my stomach can get used to."
"Your stomach would never survive my cooking, then. Thanks to my relatives, I only learned to cook proper British cuisine."
“They aren’t adventurous?”
“Nope. "More like middle-class snobs who don’t believe any countries exist outside of England."
They ate in silence for a few minutes before he brought up the topic of her father. "Why did your father really send you here?"
Ayano paused with a fork halfway to her mouth. A flicker of tension crossed her face. "What makes you think—"
"You're a terrible liar." Harry watched her over the rim of his glass. "Your left eye twitches."
Her hand flew to her face before she caught herself. A scowl replaced the brief flash of embarrassment.
A gust of wind rattled the windows, making the candles gutter. Harry's eyes narrowed as ethereal shapes materialised outside, pressing against the glass like curious children. The spirits appeared as shifting patterns in the air, barely visible except where they distorted the light.
"Perfect timing," Kaze's voice echoed through the room. His form shimmered into view beside the table, more substantial than the others but still translucent.
The windows burst open with a bang that made Kreacher yelp and disappear with a crack. Five translucent beings swooped into the dining room, their passage stirring papers and rattling the china. They swirled around the chandelier, creating musical chimes as crystals clinked together.
"Show-offs," Kaze muttered, his form rippling with disapproval.
Harry tracked the spirits as they settled into various corners. The largest took up position near the fireplace. Another, no bigger than a house cat, perched on a bookshelf and began methodically pushing leather-bound volumes onto the floor with what could only be described as gleeful malice.
"Oi!" Harry snapped. "Stop that."
The spirit made a sound like wind chimes tinkling through a summer breeze and knocked another book down, clearly delighting in the thud it made.
"I call him Zephyr," Kaze said, drifting closer to Harry. "He's... playful."
"Brilliant." Harry turned back to Ayano, who watched the spirits with undisguised fascination, her food forgotten. "Now, about your father."
Ayano sighed, setting down her cutlery with careful precision. "He wants to forge an alliance between our families." She traced the rim of her wine glass. "The Kannagi clan has dominated fire magic in Japan for centuries, but times are changing. New threats emerge. Having a powerful wind user as an ally would strengthen our position."
"And?"
"And what?"
"The part you're not telling me." Harry leaned forward. "The real reason he sent his daughter instead of coming himself."
Ayano's cheeks flushed pink, the colour creeping down her neck. "I suspect my father will make an offer for an arranged marriage. Although he didn’t state it explicitly, I know how my father thinks."
Harry choked on his wine. One of the wind spirits swooped down, patting his back with an ethereal tendril that felt like a cool breeze.
"Marriage?" he spluttered. "We've only just met!"
"Which is why I didn't mention it," Ayano snapped, amber eyes flashing. "I'm not here to throw myself at you. I came to assess your character and abilities."
"And?"
"You're infuriating."
Harry grinned. "You're not the first to say that."
A comfortable silence fell as they resumed eating. The wind spirits explored the room, creating small whirlwinds that lifted dust from forgotten corners. Zephyr had moved on from the bookshelf and now orbited the chandelier, making the crystals chime in an oddly melodic pattern.
"Tell me about the spirit world," Harry said, pushing his plate aside. "Kaze has only explained the basics to me.”
"Because you never ask properly," Kaze retorted.
Ayano dabbed her lips with a napkin before answering. "Each element usually has multiple Spirit Kings, though some are more powerful than others. Kaze is unique in that he is the sole remaining Wind Spirit King. No other king has made their presence known."
“I’m the last,” Kaze confirmed.
Ayano gestured to the ethereal beings around them. "These are lesser spirits, but still formidable in their own right. We have several that are contracted with our family. The Blaze Spirit King, who gifted us Enraiha, leads the fire spirits but doesn’t interact with us much on a daily basis."
"And the others?"
"Earth spirits tend to be solitary —they sleep in mountain cores and deep caves. Water spirits are playful but dangerous, drowning those who underestimate them. Lightning spirits are..." She shuddered, her chopsticks clattering against her plate. "Unstable. They destroy their contractors as often as they aid them."
"Can anyone form contracts with spirits?"
"No." Ayano shook her head emphatically. "Most humans lack the spiritual capacity. Those who can usually inherit the ability through bloodlines, trained from birth to handle the power."
"Yet here I am," Harry mused, absently directing a breeze to right a toppling candlestick.
"An anomaly," Ayano agreed. "I don’t think I have ever heard of another wizard who is also a spirit practitioner.”
Zephyr drifted over to Ayano. It circled her head, creating a small breeze that lifted strands of her crimson hair like flames.
"They're curious about you," Harry said, watching the interaction. "They've never met a fire user before."
"How can you tell?"
"I just... can." Harry frowned, trying to articulate the sensation. "Since forming the contract with Kaze, I understand them instinctively. Even more so now that I’m contracted to them. Their emotions, their intentions—it's like hearing a language I didn't know I spoke."
"The contract changes you," Ayano said softly, her expression understanding. "Shapes you. The longer you're bound to a spirit, the more their nature influences yours."
Harry thought of the Black Wind state and of the raw power and rage it unleashed. "Is that why you lost control during our fight?"
Ayano stiffened, her knuckles whitening around her chopsticks. "Fire responds to emotion. The stronger the feeling, the more intense the flames."
"And the kiss?" Harry smirked. "Did that spark any flames?"
A fork embedded itself in the wall beside his head with enough force to quiver.
"You're still angry about that?"
"You stole my first kiss!" A faint shimmer of heat distorted the air around her.
"I saved you from burning yourself out."
"There were other ways!"
"Name one."
Ayano opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her amber eyes blazed like the embers of a forest fire. "You're impossible."
"So you've mentioned."
Zephyr chose that moment to knock over a vase, shattering priceless porcelain on the floor. The other spirits swirled excitedly around the mess, their movements creating a miniature whirlwind of fragments.
"Enough," Harry commanded. The spirits settled immediately, though Zephyr continued to bob cheekily near the ceiling, radiating an air of unrepentance.
"They respect you," Ayano observed, anger forgotten in her fascination.
"They're bound to me now," Harry said. "Though some"—he glared at Zephyr—"push the boundaries."
"Will you teach them to spy for you?"
Harry's eyes snapped to her face. "What makes you think—"
"It's what I would do." Ayano speared a potato with precise movements. "They're perfect for surveillance. Invisible, silent, able to cover vast distances."
"You're smarter than you look."
Another fork whistled past his ear, close enough to stir his hair.
"I deserved that one," Harry admitted, running a hand through his messy hair. He studied her over the rim of his wine glass, noting the intelligence behind her fierce exterior. "Your father chose well, sending you."
"Is that a compliment?"
"An observation."
Ayano smiled, the first genuine one he'd seen from her. The expression transformed her face, softening her warrior's edges. "Maybe you're not completely insufferable after all."
Kreacher appeared with a crack, took one look at the chaos, and disappeared again, muttering about impossible masters and their strange guests.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Harry sat at the dining table the next morning, absently picking at his breakfast. After last night’s dinner with Ayano, he was feeling more positive towards the girl, although he was still weary of her father’s motives. Ayano would be sticking around for the foreseeable future, ostensibly to further her relationship with Harry. In truth, the girl wasn’t ready to return to Japan and wanted to play some more.
Kreacher appeared with a crack, depositing the Daily Prophet in front of him. "Master's morning paper," the house-elf announced, eyeing the half-eaten toast and cold beans with disapproval. "Master should eat properly after using so much magic."
The front page caught Harry's attention immediately. Below was a moving photograph of Malcolm Drake addressing a crowd of reporters in the Ministry's press room; the headline blazed in bold letters: "REVOLUTIONARY CHANGES TO QUIDDITCH LEAGUE STRUCTURE: Modern Era Demands Modern Rules".
Harry leaned forward, pushing his plate aside to spread out the paper. Attendance had dropped significantly over the past few seasons, with some matches drawing barely half capacity. The unpredictable nature of games meant fans couldn't plan around matches—some ended in an hour, while others dragged on for days. The League had finally decided to take decisive action.
The most significant change involved standardised game lengths. Professional matches would now last exactly twelve hours, split into two six-hour halves with a thirty-minute break between. The article quoted Drake: "No more matches ending before fans find their seats; no more taking days off work hoping to see the end. Every ticket holder gets exactly what they pay for—a full day of professional Quidditch."
"Substitutions limited to five per team per match," Harry read aloud, raising his eyebrows. Previously, teams could make unlimited substitutions, leading to entire reserve squads cycling through during longer matches. Some teams had even employed specialist night-flying units. The new rule would force captains to think strategically about when to rest their players and who to put in. Injuries would become a more significant factor.
But it was the changes to the Snitch that really caught his attention. If no one caught it during regular play, the match would end with a Seeker showdown—a one-on-one battle between the Seekers with the Snitch deliberately released into a restricted area. However, it would only be worth fifty points instead of the traditional one hundred and fifty, meaning teams couldn't rely on a last-minute catch to overcome poor performance.
Even more intriguing, catching the Snitch during regular play wouldn't end the match anymore. The successful team would get one hundred and fifty points, but then the Snitch would be removed entirely. The Seeker would become a free agent on the pitch, able to support their team's offensive or defensive plays for the remainder of the match.
"Clever," Harry muttered.
This would transform the Seeker position from a lone wolf role into something more integrated with team strategy. They'd need to practice extensively with Chasers and Beaters, developing plays that could utilise their speed and agility after the Snitch was caught. The best Seekers would need to become well-rounded players, not just specialists.
He already knew that professional Seekers often acted as disruptors, harassing opposing formations while searching for the Snitch. But under these new rules, that secondary role would become just as important as their primary one.
Harry glanced at the stack of contract offers sitting on the table. Nearly every British team had made him an offer, from the Montrose Magpies (offering the highest salary) to the perpetually struggling Chudley Cannons (offering partial ownership and complete control over team restructuring). The new season started in September, giving him just enough time to train with a team if he accepted.
He'd likely start as a reserve— most teams wouldn't risk putting a rookie straight into their starting lineup, famous name or not. The article mentioned that teams were already modifying their training programmes to adapt to the new rules. Reserve Seekers would need to practice with both first and second teams to develop the necessary versatility.
The Prophet continued with a detailed analysis of how the changes might affect current team strategies, but Harry's mind was already racing with possibilities. His experience with wind magic could give him a unique edge, especially in the team play aspects. No other Seeker would have his level of aerial awareness or ability to read air currents. He'd have to be careful not to use his powers too obviously, but subtle applications could make him exceptional at both disruption and support roles.
"Perhaps it’s worth giving Quidditch a shot," Harry mused.
He could still hunt the Mundanes—Quidditch training wouldn't take up all his time, and his wind network could operate independently. He picked up each contract and read through them carefully. Even after reading them, he still hadn’t made up his mind.
Harry sighed, setting the contracts aside. The decision could wait a little longer. There was no need to rush. Even if he joined in the middle of the season, he was confident he would be accepted by most teams.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Harry stood atop Big Ben's tower, robes whipping in the evening wind. London sprawled beneath him like a circuit board, streets glowing amber in the dying sun. His eyes remained closed, focusing on the thousands of air currents feeding information into his consciousness. Each breeze carried fragments of the city's life—conversations, movements, the steady pulse of millions of lives.
The wind network had taken a week to perfect. Five wind spirits stationed strategically across Britain created a web of surveillance that would make the Department of Mysteries envious. Zephyr, the smallest and most energetic, darted between Manchester and Liverpool, his playful nature perfect for investigating unusual patterns. The largest spirit, whom Harry had named Boreas, maintained a stoic vigil over Scotland, his reports coming in measured, methodical bursts. While the network remained active during daylight hours, it operated more passively at night. Although this meant it took longer for Harry to be alerted to emergencies, he didn't want to work the spirits around the clock.
Harry returned to Grimmauld Place. In his study, a massive map dominated the wall. Enchanted parchment stretched from floor to ceiling, marked with glowing points of light. Red spots pulsed where the spirits detected suspicious activity. Blue dots tracked his spirits' positions, moving like slow-swimming fish across Britain. Green lines traced major air currents, creating a complex web of surveillance paths.
The information bombardment felt like standing in a crowded room where everyone spoke at once. Harry had learned to filter it, sorting relevant data from background noise, but the constant input left him with persistent headaches. Muggles discussing the most mundane and private conversations—all of it flowed through his consciousness in an endless stream.
"Another dead end," Harry muttered, crossing Margaret Thimbleton off Hermione's list. The file joined a growing stack of dead leads on his desk. He pressed his fingers against his temples, where a familiar throb had taken up residence. "Fifteen Squibs investigated, all clean."
Kaze materialised beside his desk, his form rippling like heat waves. "The Morton woman?"
"Moved to Spain five years ago." Harry tossed her file into a box marked 'Cleared'. "Runs a small bookshop in Barcelona, hasn't contacted Britain since she left."
Movement on the map caught his eye. A red spot pulsed near Heathrow's Terminal 5, growing larger by the minute. Harry extended his senses, tapping into the wind currents around the airport.
The spirits fed him fragments of activity: Maintenance crews in high-visibility jackets crossing the tarmac in precise patterns. The ground crew were directing a Boeing 747 to its gate. Normal airport chaos, yet something felt wrong.
"Too much movement for this time of night," he murmured, focusing harder.
"Or perhaps you're seeing threats where none exist," Kaze suggested, drifting closer to the map. "Airports always buzz with activity."
Harry nodded reluctantly. The past few days had yielded dozens of false alarms—teenagers spraying graffiti in Birmingham, drug deals in Manchester, and even an illegal boxing match in Glasgow. Each time, his wind network had triggered warnings that led nowhere. While he reported the drug deals to the police, he didn’t bother with any minor crimes. It wasn’t his job to clean up Britain but to deal with the Mundanes.
He turned back to the Squib files spread across his desk. James Fletcher's photo caught his attention—a sullen-faced man with deep-set eyes and a scar across his chin. Aged forty-two, unmarried, no children. He disappeared three months ago.
"Fletcher's landlady said he became obsessed with magic," Harry read from his notes, written in Hermione's neat hand. "Started ranting about revenge against those who'd 'stolen his birthright.' Plastered his walls with newspaper clippings about magical accidents."
"A potential lead?" Kaze moved to examine Fletcher's photo.
"Maybe." Harry pinned the photo to a corkboard, where he tracked potential Mundane connections. Red string linked suspicious events, creating a web of possibilities. "But if he's involved, why can't we find him? The spirits have searched every corner of Britain."
A cool breeze announced another spirit's arrival. This one, called Notus, specialised in urban surveillance. His report flowed into Harry's mind in a rush of impressions.
Harry's head throbbed. Even with the spirits helping to filter information, monitoring all of Britain overwhelmed his senses. Each spirit processed data differently—Zephyr sent excited bursts of information, while Boreas provided steady streams of processed intelligence. Learning to interpret their varying methods had taken weeks.
"You need rest," Kaze advised, noting Harry's pallor. "You've been at this for sixteen hours straight."
"Can't. Not while they're planning their next attack."
The map drew his attention again. The disturbance at Heathrow had spread, covering most of Terminal 5. More maintenance crews moved across the tarmac, their patterns too precise for routine work.
Harry expanded his consciousness, pushing his abilities to their limit. The wind spirits responded, feeding him more detailed fragments:
"...final checks complete on wing assembly..."
"...departure on schedule for 20:00..."
"...passengers beginning boarding procedures for the Sydney flight..."
Normal airport chatter, yet something felt wrong. The air currents moved unnaturally as if someone had disrupted their flow. Like ripples in a pond moving against the wind.
"Probably nothing," Harry muttered, trying to convince himself. "Airport's always chaos."
He turned back to Fletcher's file, but exhaustion blurred the words. Sixteen hours of constant input had taken their toll.
Kreacher appeared with a crack that made Harry wince. "Letter from Miss Granger," the elf announced, holding out a sealed envelope. "Most urgent, she says."
Harry opened the envelope, recognising Hermione's precise handwriting:
Dear Harry,
We're leaving tonight—I managed to book flights to Australia. Ron's terrified of flying in a 'metal death trap' (his words), but I prefer the method over magical transport for such a long journey.
I'll write when we land. Wish us luck finding my parents.
Love,
Hermione
P.S. Found another name for your Squib list: Margaret Thimbleton, who lives in Kent.
Harry set the letter aside, adding Thimbleton to his investigation list. His eyes drifted back to the map, where the Heathrow disturbance pulsed with steady regularity. Easy to dismiss as normal activity. Too easy.
"I'm missing something," he muttered, staring at the pulsing red light. The wind currents whispered warnings he couldn't quite grasp. "But what?"
"Perhaps you're trying too hard," Kaze suggested, his form flickering like a candle in a draft. "Not every disturbance indicates danger."
Harry nodded reluctantly. Since the cinema bombing, he'd jumped at shadows, suspecting every crowd. The wind network, meant to prevent another attack, instead fed his growing paranoia.
He gathered the Squib files, arranging them for tomorrow's investigation. Fletcher's disappearance troubled him most—the timing too convenient, the circumstances too neat. Another lead to chase when morning came.
The wind spirits maintained their vigil as Harry finally succumbed to exhaustion. Their whispers followed him into uneasy dreams—countless voices carried on the breeze, sharing secrets just beyond his understanding.
In his study, the magical map continued its silent warning. The red spot at Heathrow pulsed steadily, marking the subtle difference between routine chaos and calculated deception. Sometimes the hardest threats to spot were the ones hiding in plain sight.
And on a tarmac at Heathrow, a bomb waited patiently beneath an aircraft's wing, its digital display counting down to destruction.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The seat belt dug into his waist no matter how he adjusted it.
"But how does it stay up, Hermione? I mean, it's massive!" He prodded the oval window beside him, condensation beading under his fingertip. "And what's this made of? Surely not glass? Dad would love to see this—all these people, just sitting in rows, about to fly without—!"
"It's a special plastic called Plexiglas," Hermione interrupted, barely glancing up from her dog-eared copy of 'Australia: A Traveller's Guide'. Ron had almost said the taboo word. "And the plane stays up because of the shape of the wings and the speed. The air moves faster over the curved top of the wing than the bottom, creating lift—"
"Is he always this thick?" A small face popped up from the seat in front of them, revealing a boy of about ten with a mass of curly black hair and a scattering of freckles. "Maybe you should find a smarter boyfriend. One who at least knows how planes work."
Hermione couldn't help but giggle, while Ron's ears turned a shade of scarlet that clashed horribly with his hair. His hand instinctively moved towards his wand pocket before he caught himself.
"Listen here, you little—" Ron started, but Hermione placed a restraining hand on his arm. The boy's mother, thankfully absorbed in her headphones, remained oblivious to the exchange.
"The plane's moving," Hermione said quickly, pointing out the window.
Ron gripped the armrests as the massive vehicle began to taxi. The safety demonstration played on screens throughout the cabin, but he was too focused on the increasing rumble of the engines to pay attention. When the aircraft turned onto the runway and the engines roared to full power, he screwed his eyes shut and muttered what sounded suspiciously like a prayer to Merlin.
"Bloody hell!" he yelped as they lifted off, the sensation making his stomach lurch. Several passengers turned to glare at him, while the boy in front sniggered openly.
As the plane levelled out at cruising altitude and the seatbelt signs dimmed with a soft 'ding', Ron's death grip on the armrests finally loosened. He watched in fascination as London disappeared beneath a layer of clouds.
"See? Not so bad," Hermione said, unbuckling her seatbelt. She stood up, reaching for the overhead compartment. "I'm just going to get my other book—"
The explosion tore through the wing without warning. The sound was deafening—a sharp crack followed by the plane lurching violently. Hermione was thrown upward. Her head cracked against the overhead bin with sickening force before she rebounded off the ceiling.
"Hermione!" Ron lunged forward, catching her before she hit the seats. She slumped in his arms, completely unconscious, a nasty gash visible above her right temple where blood matted her bushy hair.
Chaos erupted around them. The plane began to nose-dive, and screams filled the cabin. Luggage burst from the overhead compartments, raining down on passengers. The boy in front was crying now, all traces of cheek gone as he clung to his mother.
Ron fumbled for his wand, hidden in his jacket sleeves. His hands shook as he tried to think through his options. "Adhaero!" he whispered, casting a sticking charm to secure himself to the seat. He pulled Hermione close against his chest, cursing under his breath. "Mental, absolutely mental. Should've taken a Portkey. Should've listened to Mum..."
The plane was descending rapidly now, the ground rushing up at a terrifying speed. Warning alarms blared through the cabin. The flight attendants, strapped into their jump seats, were shouting instructions that nobody could hear over the panicked screams. Ron's mind raced—he could try to apparate, but at this speed, and with an unconscious Hermione... The risk was almost as bad as the current situation they found themselves in.
"Superman!" the boy in front suddenly screamed, pressing his tear-stained face against the window. "Look!"
Ron peered out, expecting to see some Muggle nonsense. Instead, his jaw dropped.
A figure flew alongside the aircraft, keeping pace effortlessly despite their speed. Dark robes billowed around them like storm clouds, hood pulled low to obscure their face. But Ron would recognise that flying style anywhere—just as he had seen his best mate on the night of the Battle of Hogwarts.
"Harry!"
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
A few minutes earlier.
Harry jolted awake in his study, parchment stuck to his cheek and the imprint of his quill marking his face. The magical map on his wall pulsed with its usual activity, but something felt wrong. His connection to the wind network buzzed with unusual intensity. A moment later, Zephyr sent an urgent alert—erratic air currents around a passenger aircraft leaving Heathrow, patterns matching those he'd observed earlier in the terminal.
His stomach dropped as Hermione's letter flashed through his mind, still sitting open on his desk: "We're leaving tonight... prefer the method over magical transport for such a long journey."
"Bloody wind!" Harry scrambled up, knocking over his half-empty coffee cup. Dark liquid seeped into the stack of Squib files, but he ignored it. He snatched the robe draped over his chair, not bothering to change out of his rumpled clothes from earlier. The wind spirits swirled around him agitatedly as he threw open the study window, their anxiety feeding into his own.
The cool night air hit him as he launched himself into the dark sky above Grimmauld Place. London sprawled below, a maze of amber streetlights and moving vehicles. His enhanced senses picked up thousands of air currents, each carrying fragments of information—conversations, movement, the city's perpetual motion.
He hovered for a moment, letting his awareness stretch out across London. There—a disturbance in the air currents to the west. The wind patterns around the aircraft were all wrong, disrupted in ways that matched the suspicious activity he'd noted at Terminal 5. He shot forward just as an explosion lit up the night sky. The aircraft's left wing erupted in flames, and the massive vehicle began to spiral downward.
As he flew towards it at full speed, his senses caught wind of the passengers in the plane. His heart clenched when he spotted a shock of red hair—Ron—and beside him, Hermione's unmistakable bushy hair. She appeared to be unconscious, slumped against Ron's shoulder. Other passengers pressed against windows, their faces masks of terror in the dim cabin lighting.
"Need to stabilise it first," he muttered, pushing himself faster. The plane was dropping like a stone, and passengers' screams carried to him on the wind. The aircraft's rate of descent was catastrophic—he estimated less than a minute before impact at this rate.
Kaze materialised beside him, keeping pace effortlessly through the night sky. "This is not going to be easy. Do you know how much this thing weighs? And the momentum it's falling at? A Boeing 747 at full passenger capacity—you're looking at well over 400 tonnes."
"Only one way to find out," Harry said, gritting his teeth. He thrust both arms forward, calling on every bit of power he could muster. The air responded to his will, forming a massive vortex beneath the falling aircraft. Wind currents twisted and condensed, creating an invisible cushion of compressed air.
The strain hit him immediately, like trying to catch a falling mountain with his bare hands. Every muscle trembled with effort. The plane's momentum fought against his winds, threatening to tear the damaged aircraft apart if he applied too much force too quickly. He had to balance between slowing its descent and keeping it intact.
Sweat broke out on his forehead as he gradually altered the vortex, trying to create a buffer that would slow the plane's descent without ripping off its remaining wing. The damaged engine dangled precariously, trailing smoke and flames into the night sky.
The ground was approaching fast—too fast. He needed somewhere to land it—there was no way he could keep this up to Heathrow. Through the wind spirits, he sensed an empty field ahead, probably farmland.
It would have to do. Now he just had to figure out how to land a crippled passenger jet without killing everyone on board. The next few minutes would test the limits of his new powers.
So, what do you think? In the next chapter, how will Harry manage to land the plane? What about the aftermath? This is one secret that’s not going to stay quiet.
Thanks for reading.
