Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the intellectual property associated with Harry Potter.
Hi all,
Here is the next chapter. Harry moves into Grimmauld Place, and the Mundanes escalate their attacks.
Chapter 6
Harry pushed open the heavy door of Grimmauld Place and stepped inside. His footsteps were muffled by the threadbare carpet that lined the long, gloomy hallway.
The house's old-fashioned gas lamps sputtered to life along the walls, casting flickering shadows across peeling wallpaper and grimy portraits.
Kaze materialised beside him. "What a dump," he said, eyeing a huge patch of mould on the ceiling.
Harry nodded. "It's seen better days."
"We need to renovate this house. I sense a lot of dark creatures here."
"They gather in this place like flies. We could never seem to get rid of them."
"Well, do something about them. They set my teeth on edge."
"What teeth?"
Harry had left Hogwarts that morning. He craved solitude, a chance to breathe without the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders. He intended to invite only his closest friends—Hermione, the Weasleys, Andromeda, and Teddy—to visit. Anyone else who wished to contact him would have to send him a letter.
Hermione had accompanied Ron to the Burrow. She would live there until she finished making arrangements to travel to Australia to find her parents. He'd offered to help, but she'd refused with a sad smile.
"It's my responsibility," she'd said, unable to hide her guilt.
Harry struggled to reconcile her actions with the friend he knew. She'd done it to protect them, but erasing their memories seemed a step too far. He understood her rationale—shielding them from the anguish of mourning her death if she didn't survive the war. But the cost...
All those years of love, pride, and shared experiences were wiped away as if they never happened. It struck him as profoundly cruel, even more so than the pain of loss.
Hermione was brilliant, but in this, he couldn't help but think she'd made a grave mistake. The road to reconciliation would be long and painful. He only hoped she'd find a way to make it right.
Before they parted ways, she gave him a list of Squibs who still lived in the magical world. When he told her about his task, she didn't hesitate to help him. She went around the castle, collecting information from the students and professors. He knew it probably wasn't a complete list, but it was a starting point. Once he settled into Grimmauld Place, he would start working through the list.
The Quidditch scout's cards were burning a hole in his pocket. It had been on his mind constantly, but he still hadn't decided if he wanted to pursue Quidditch professionally. He decided to wait until the league announced its new direction. For all he knew, he would hate the changes.
Harry continued down the hallway, unaware that he had disturbed the portrait on the wall.
"FILTH! SCUM! BY-PRODUCTS OF DIRT AND VILENESS! HALF-BREEDS, MUTANTS, FREAKS, BEGONE FROM THIS PLACE! HOW DARE YOU BEFOUL THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS-"
"Bloody wind," Harry muttered.
"What are you doing here?!" Walburga screeched, staring at him with dark, malicious eyes. "Haven't you died yet? No matter. Wait until the Dark Lord gets his hands on you. It's only a matter of—"
He flicked his wrist. A gust of wind tore the portrait from the wall, tearing a chunk of plaster along with it, silencing Walburga momentarily. She recovered quickly, her painted face contorting with rage as she continued her tirade.
Kaze hissed. "Shut that woman up."
Harry floated the portrait out onto the deck that overlooked the backyard. "I have had enough of your bitchiness."
With another gesture, the wind ripped through the canvas, shredding Walburga's image into confetti. The pieces scattered across the lawn, Walburga's final screams fading into nothing.
A loud crack announced Kreacher's arrival. The house-elf stared down at the remains of the portrait, his expression mournful. But when he turned to Harry, he bowed low.
"Kreacher has returned to Grimmauld Place to look after the Master," he croaked. "What are your orders?"
Harry's brow furrowed. Kreacher's sudden deference unsettled him. The elf had proven his loyalty during the Battle of Hogwarts, but the memory of his betrayal still burned. Sirius might still be alive if not for Kreacher and his own stupidity.
Kreacher's bulbous eyes, once filled with contempt, now shone with an unsettling reverence. It contrasted starkly with the sneering, muttering creature that had once skulked through these halls. The change was so drastic it made Harry's skin crawl.
He was tempted to dismiss Kreacher, but the consequences gave him pause. The elf was ancient, his existence seemingly tethered to the purpose of serving this Black family. Casting him out now would be tantamount to a death sentence.
Despite their tumultuous history, Harry baulked at such cruelty. He reminded himself that much of Kreacher's past behaviour stemmed from decades of indoctrination in the Black household. The elf was as much a product of his environment as Harry himself had been, shaped by circumstances beyond his control. The realisation didn't erase the past but it tempered Harry's anger.
"Wait here, Kreacher," Harry said. "I'm going to get rid of creatures taking up residence here."
Kreacher's eyes widened. "Kreacher can get rid of them!"
"No need."
Harry strode back inside, leaving Kreacher wringing his hands on the doorstep. He stood in the centre of the hallway. Streams of wind emerged from his body, seeming to take on a life of their own. They coursed through the first floor, blowing open doors that dared impede their path. Moments later, a cacophony of screeches and growls filled the air as various dark creatures were forcibly evicted from their hiding spots.
Doxies, Bundimuns, and even a particularly stubborn Boggart were swept out of the house in a whirlwind of fur, feathers, and ectoplasm. They met the same fate as Walburga's portrait, torn apart by Harry's wind before they could even hit the ground.
Harry repeated the process on each floor, methodically cleansing the house of its unwanted inhabitants. When he was finished, the oppressive atmosphere had lifted.
"That was a lot more efficient than Mrs Weasley's method."
Harry stood in his bedroom, surveying the sparse contents of his trunk. His entire life fit into a space smaller than the cupboard under the stairs. A handful of worn clothes, his Invisibility Cloak, the photo album Hagrid had given him, and a few cherished mementoes from his years at Hogwarts. It was pitiful.
He made a mental note to visit a clothing store to buy himself a new wardrobe. The thought of venturing into London, of being just another face in the crowd, held a certain appeal.
Kaze shimmered into existence beside him.
"Settled in, have you?" he asked. "We need to talk about some things. Now that you have dealt with the most pressing matters in the magical world."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "What's on your mind?"
"First, the wind spirits," Kaze said. "There are only half a dozen left in the world. They'll have sensed my presence and will seek me out."
"For protection?" Harry asked.
Kaze nodded. "Exactly. They're vulnerable now, and they know I'm active again."
Harry shrugged. "I've no problem letting them stay here."
"Good," Kaze said. "You should know, you'll be able to make a contract with them and use them like you do me, though they're nowhere as powerful."
Harry frowned. He was unsure if he wanted another spirit attached to him. Kaze was already more than enough. "What else?"
Kaze's form shimmered slightly. "There are other spirit practitioners out there who borrow power from spirits. It usually runs in family lines, with entire clans contracted to a specific element."
"Just like you and me?"
"Yes, but not many are contracted to a Spirit King, at least not directly," Kaze explained. "Most human bodies can't bear the strain."
"So why am I special?" Harry asked. "I'm not part of a clan. You've never really explained it to me."
"I'm not entirely sure myself. Perhaps it's because you're a wizard. Magic tends to make your body more resilient. Or there might be another explanation. When I found you, I was happy there was someone I could contract with. I didn't question it too closely."
Kaze had yet to explain why he needed to be contracted with a human to use his powers. Harry suspected it had to do with why he had been dormant for so long. He didn't push for answers, as Kaze made it clear he didn't want to talk about it.
"Why are you telling me about these practitioners?" Harry asked. "Am I going to be interacting with them?"
"Most likely," Kaze confirmed. "They tend to be insular but keep tabs on others like them. One of the Spirit Kings may notify them as well. They may have sensed my presence when I awakened."
Harry's eyes narrowed. "And you're just telling me this now?"
"You had other things on your mind."
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. By accepting the contract with Kaze, he solved one problem while potentially inheriting a slew of new ones.
"So, let me get this straight. Not only do I have to worry about the magical world, but now I've got to deal with these practitioners as well."
Kaze's form flickered, a sign that Harry had learnt to recognise as amusement. "You didn't think defeating Voldemort would be the end of your adventures, did you?"
Harry glared at the spirit. "I was rather hoping for a bit of peace and quiet."
"I don't believe you," Kaze said. "You'd have gone mad with boredom within a week."
Harry couldn't entirely disagree, but he wasn't about to admit it. "So what do we do? Do we wait for these practitioners to show up on my doorstep?"
"Maybe. They may lack the versatile magic of wizards, but they're far from defenceless."
"Care to elaborate?"
"They see through enchantments. Mind-altering magic? Compulsions, illusions, memory charms—they shrug them off like water. And raw power? Most wizards would be outclassed."
"Brilliant," Harry said. "So we're potentially up against magical heavyweights who can waltz right through our usual defences. Any other cheerful news you'd like to share?"
"I never said they would see you as an enemy. Besides, there aren't many practitioners in Europe," Kaze said before pausing. "But things could have changed from my time."
Ayano stepped off the plane at Heathrow. She stretched, working out the kinks from the long flight, and made her way to baggage claim. As she waited for her luggage, her eyes scanned the crowd, pausing on a woman holding a sign with "Kannagi" written in neat, block letters.
Approaching cautiously, Ayano nodded as the woman asked, "Miss Kannagi?"
"I'm Regina Bowles," the woman said, leaning in close. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm a witch. Your father hired me as your guide to the British Magical World."
Ayano frowned. Her father's connections never ceased to surprise her. But this could interfere with her plans to explore London freely.
Regina smiled as if reading her mind. "Your father didn't ask me to report your movements. I'm here to support you as needed, nothing more."
Ayano's mood improved immediately. "Awesome. I've got a list of places I'd like to visit. Any recommendations? And let's hold off on magical world talk for a few days."
"Understood," Regina nodded, leading her to the car park.
Once seated in Regina's modest sedan, Ayano closed her eyes, concentrating. With a shimmer of heat, Enraiha, the Kannagi's sacred sword, materialised in her lap. Its ornate hilt gleamed in the afternoon sun filtering through the car windows.
Regina raised an eyebrow but said nothing, her eyes flicking to the rear-view mirror as she pulled out of the parking space.
"Let's get you booked into a hotel first," Regina said, merging into London traffic. "Then dinner. Any preferences? Traditional English fare, or something more familiar?"
"The former. I came here to experience new things."
Over the next few days, Ayano explored London's famous sights with the enthusiasm of a first-time visitor.
Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament impressed her with their Gothic grandeur, the intricate stonework a testament to centuries of history. The Tower of London's bloody history captivated her, and she spent the most time exploring it of all her tourist destinations.
She found Buckingham Palace less impressive than expected—just another fancy building behind imposing gates. The changing of the guard, however, amused her with its pomp and ceremony.
Despite her overall admiration for London, Ayano found certain aspects disappointing. The state of the city's waterways shocked her; the Thames and other rivers were often strewn with rubbish, a sight unthinkable in Japan.
The cuisine failed to impress Ayano as well. Most dishes seemed bland to her palate, accustomed as it was to the rich, complex flavours of Japanese food. The greasy fish and chips and heavy stews left her longing for the delicate balance of umami, sweet, and savoury she enjoyed in Japan. However, she did discover one culinary bright spot: afternoon tea. The ritual charmed her. She looked forward to the warm scones slathered with clotted cream and jam, with the soothing pot of tea that accompanied them.
After satisfying her tourist curiosity, Ayano turned her attention to magical matters. "What can you tell me about the magical world? I'm afraid I don't know much about them. Do you belong to one of those prestigious families I have heard about?"
Regina shook her head. "I'm Muggle-born. I left during the war with You-Know-Who. I only returned after his defeat."
"Who's this 'You-Know-Who'?" she asked instead, leaning forward with interest.
"You-Know-Who was the darkest wizard Britain has seen in centuries. He first rose to power in the 1970s, spreading terror and gathering followers who believed in his twisted ideology of pure-blood supremacy."
"Pure-blood supremacy?"
Regina nodded grimly. "The belief that wizards from all-magical families are superior to those with Muggle—non-magical—heritage. It's utter nonsense, of course, but it's deeply ingrained in some of the older families."
She continued, detailing Voldemort's first defeat at the hands of baby Harry Potter, his mysterious return years later, and the brutal war that followed. Ayano's eyes widened as Regina described the Battle of Hogwarts, the final confrontation where Harry Potter had once again triumphed over the Dark Lord.
"And this all happened just recently?" Ayano asked, incredulous. "How is it possible that the non-magical world didn't know about this?"
Regina sighed, taking a sip of her butterbeer. "The International Statute of Secrecy. It's a law that keeps the magical world hidden from Muggles. Even during the war, great efforts were made to conceal the conflict."
Ayano shook her head, struggling to wrap her mind around it. "But surely, with all the destruction and death... how could it be hidden?"
"Memory charms, mostly."
Ayano fell silent, processing this information. A war had raged, people had died, and yet the world at large remained oblivious. It was both impressive and terrifying.
"And Harry Potter," Ayano said slowly, "he ended this war?"
Regina nodded. "He's been fighting You-Know-Who since he was a child. The details are murky, but in the final battle, he displayed power beyond anything we'd seen before. They say he defeated Voldemort like he was nothing, wielding the power of wind magic."
Ayano's heart skipped a beat. Could it be the Fujutsu user her father had sensed?
"I need to meet him," Ayano said.
Regina raised an eyebrow. "As I said, it won't be easy. He's been keeping a low profile since the war ended. But," she added, seeing the stubborn set of Ayano's jaw, "I might know someone who could help. Let me make a few inquiries."
Ayano nodded, satisfied. "Where can I learn more about the magical world?"
"In Diagon Alley," Regina replied. "It's the main wizarding shopping area."
The man trudged through the crisp London streets, his face obscured by the hood of his worn grey sweatshirt. A battered backpack hung heavy on his shoulders.
He stiffened as a group of rowdy Londoners stumbled towards him, their laughter echoing off the looming brick buildings. The stench of alcohol wafted from them. He sidestepped to avoid them, unwilling to risk jostling his precious cargo.
Rounding a corner, his eyes darted to the looming facade of the cinema. Neon lights flickered against the twilight sky, casting an eerie glow on the pavement. He quickened his pace, slipping inside the lobby.
A wall of movie posters greeted him. His gaze swept over them, pausing on one in particular. 'Dark City' stood out in bold, shadowy letters.
He read the blurb, his lips moving silently: "A man struggles with memories of his past, which include a wife he cannot remember and a nightmarish world no one else ever seems to wake up from."
"Seems oddly fitting," he murmured.
The movie started in fifteen minutes. Perfect timing. Shuffling towards the counter, he kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with the bored-looking teenager.
"One for 'Dark City', please," he mumbled, fishing a handful of crumpled notes from his pocket.
Ticket in hand, he navigated the crowded lobby. The smell of buttered popcorn and excited chatter filled the air. Couples held hands, groups of teenagers jostled each other, and families wrangled excited children. He slipped into the darkened theatre, choosing a seat near the back, away from the main cluster of moviegoers.
He settled the backpack on his lap, his arms wrapping protectively around it. As more people filed in, he scanned the room. Over half the seats were filled, a sea of heads silhouetted against the dim light of the pre-show advertisements.
The lights dimmed further, and the opening credits rolled. He unzipped the backpack, his hands trembling slightly as they brushed against the cold metal. He checked the device to ensure there were no problems.
Satisfied, he set the time before closing the backpack and setting it on the ground. The movie had barely started before he stood up from his seat and left the theatre. On his way out, he placed a plain white envelope on the counter when the teenager wasn't looking.
Once outside, Bobby Pearson sucked in a lungful of cold night air, his heart hammering against his ribs. He'd done it. He forced himself to walk, not run, down the street. Every second counted now, and lingering would only invite suspicion.
His mind reeled, memories flickering like a damaged film reel. Once, he'd been just another bloke—a delivery driver with a wife, a little girl, a life. Then came the day when everything shattered. A wizard, a botched memory charm, and suddenly Bobby Pearson ceased to exist in all but body.
The recruiter had found him later, piecing together the fragments of his shattered life. The truth had been a bitter pill to swallow. Magic was real, and it had destroyed him.
Hatred festered in the hollow spaces where memories should have been. The leader's words fell on fertile ground. Bobby found himself swept up in a rebellion against a world he'd never known existed.
However, convincing him took some time to agree to tonight's plans.
It wasn't until he witnessed the power of that wizard that he had a change of heart. The memory seared through Bobby's mind: a raven-haired wizard, eyes blazing with unearthly power, conjuring a tornado from thin air. Only Queen Elizabeth and her security were spared due to the presence of wizards among them.
Bobby reached into his shirt and held the medallion hanging around his neck. It was only because of this that he wasn't affected like the others. He had cowered in an alley, watching slack-jawed as the wizards cast spells to alter the victims' memories. He wondered if anyone had suffered in the same way that he had.
A thunderous boom shattered the night. Bobby stumbled, whirling to face the cinema. Smoke billowed from the roof, dark and ominous against the starlit sky. The deed was done. An eerie calm settled over him, the point of no return now firmly in his wake.
He turned away and resumed walking. This was merely the opening salvo. How would the Prime Minister and the Crown respond to this brazen act? The thought brought a grim smile to Bobby's lips as he melted into the shadows of London's streets.
Harry was halfway through his breakfast of toast and eggs when a tawny owl swooped through the open window of Grimmauld Place, dropping a letter onto his plate. He recognised the official seal of the Crown investigators immediately. Frowning, he broke the wax and unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the neat script.
As he read, his grip on the letter tightened, knuckles whitening. A Mundane attack on a cinema in central London had left seventeen dead and dozens more injured. The investigators wanted him at the scene as soon as possible.
Harry stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the worn wooden floor. He summoned his coat, the dark fabric flying across the room and settling on his shoulders. He paused at the door, then turned back to grab the badge the Diplomatic Protection Group had given him. It was a weighty thing, both physically and symbolically. It granted him powers akin to those of a police officer, but strictly for investigating the Mundane incidents.
Founded in November 1974, the DPG started as a branch of the Metropolitan Police Service, primarily tasked with protecting diplomatic missions in Central London. Over time, its responsibilities had grown to include security for royal weddings, state visits, and other high-profile events. By 1979, it had been elevated to its own command, later becoming part of the Royalty and Diplomatic Protection Department.
More recently, a new division formed within the DPG. It was staffed primarily by Muggle-born wizards. Initially tasked with addressing magical threats to the royals, their remit had expanded in the wake of the Mundane threat to cover magical dangers to all citizens. This division answered directly to the Prime Minister, the Queen, and a few high-ranking government officials. A handful of vetted non-magical personnel worked alongside the wizards, bound by strict non-disclosure agreements to maintain the secrecy of the magical world.
Harry apparated to an alley near the cinema, the familiar sensation of being squeezed through a tight tube giving way to the sounds and smells of central London. He disliked apparating, but the situation called for it. He hadn't even taken the apparition test yet, but he was competent enough.
The area was cordoned off, a sea of fluorescent yellow jackets marking where police and emergency services swarmed the scene. He approached the police tape, fishing out his badge. The constable guarding the cordon inspected it before nodding and lifting the tape for Harry to duck under.
Debris littered the street, and the acrid stench of smoke hung heavy in the air. Emergency vehicles' flashing lights cast an eerie, pulsing glow over the scene. Harry's stomach churned as he took in the full extent of the devastation.
A stern-faced woman in a crisp charcoal suit approached him, her sensible shoes crunching over the debris. "Mr Potter. Thank you for coming so quickly."
Harry nodded grimly, shaking her offered hand. "Inspector Hawthorne. What do we know so far?"
"The explosion occurred during a late-night screening of 'Dark City'. Seventeen were confirmed dead and dozens injured. We've got witness statements, but..."
She trailed off, glancing around at the bustling crime scene technicians and uniformed officers. "Well, you know how reliable Muggle accounts can be in these situations. We only know the Mundanes were responsible because they left a letter claiming responsibility."
"May I see it?"
Inspector Hawthorne handed him the letter.
Harry skimmed the note, his jaw clenching as he read the Mundanes' demands. They ranged from the reasonable to the absurd, but the underlying threat was clear: meet our terms or more innocent lives will be lost. The demands were sweeping and radical, with several standing out starkly to Harry.
The ones that caught his attention most were full public disclosure of the magical world, integration of magic into the NHS to treat Muggle illnesses, stricter regulation and monitoring of wizards and witches, and reparations for those harmed by magical conflicts and memory charms.
He handed back the letter to Inspector Hawthorne. He couldn't believe the group's audacity. These demands would upend centuries of magical secrecy and tradition. The implications were staggering. If the Ministry of Magic learnt about this radical group, it wouldn't take it lying down.
"Why would they want the government to reveal the truth about wizards to the public?" Hawthorne asked. "They can do that themselves."
"Who would believe them?"
Harry stepped into the cinema, the destruction hitting him anew. The explosion had torn through the theatre, leaving a tangle of twisted metal and shredded upholstery where rows of seats once stood.
"We've found the explosive device's remains," Hawthorne said. "It's being examined now. Preliminary reports suggest it was sophisticated—not some amateur job. So, what do you think?"
Harry hesitated. His expertise lay in magical threats, not conventional explosives. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd been called to the scene, beyond being part of the investigation team.
"Give me a moment," he said.
Hawthorne nodded and retreated to the entrance, instructing the others to clear the area temporarily. Her efficient manner reminded Harry of Hermione.
As soon as they were alone, Kaze materialised beside him. "You humans never cease to amaze me with how destructive you are."
"Tell me about it," Harry muttered, running a hand through his messy hair. "Is there any way to use the wind to trace the bomber's whereabouts?"
"Not at all. The explosion would have wiped out any lingering scents. Not to mention it's been too long already since the incident."
Harry sighed, frustration building. Was he truly unable to contribute anything meaningful to this investigation? He felt useless, out of his depth in this Muggle crime scene.
"There may be one method," Kaze said.
"What is it?"
"You're not going to like it."
So, what do you think? In the next chapter, Harry and Ayano finally meet.
Patrons get access to advanced chapters for all of my stories. Read my profile for information on how to join if you are interested.
Thanks for reading.