The Wind Mage's Legacy: Chapter 19

Hi all, 

Here’s the third chapter of the week. I still owe a fourth chapter, which will roll over into next week. I will start posting a chapter schedule on Sundays for the following week, so I can set myself a goal and not procrastinate. 😅

The green flames died down as Harry stepped out of the fireplace, brushing soot from his shoulders. Minerva McGonagall glanced up from her desk, quill pausing mid-stroke.

"Potter. Thank you for coming on such short notice." She gestured to the chair opposite her desk.

Harry sank into the offered seat, taking in the headmistress's office. The former headmasters dozed in their portraits, though Harry noticed Snape watching him with one eye cracked open.

"I'm surprised you asked me to teach the flying lesson," Harry said. "What happened to Madam Hooch?"

Minerva's lips thinned to a barely visible line. "Rolanda decided to quit a few days ago."

"What happened?"

"Rolanda was affected by the war more seriously than she let on," Minerva said. "Unbeknownst to me, she started heavily drinking over the summer."

"I see. She's finally living up to her name," Harry said. "It would be even better if she is doing something illegal, like smuggling alcohol."

"Please be serious, Harry."

Minerva reached into her drawer and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Harry's eyebrows shot up as she poured a generous measure into one of them and slid it across the desk.

"No, thanks." He pushed the glass back toward her.

Minerva shrugged and downed the contents in one go, the amber liquid disappearing with practiced efficiency.

"Are all the staff at Hogwarts secretly alcoholics?"

She ignored his question, setting the glass down with a sharp click. "It's that bloody Trelawney's fault. Dobber made everything worse."

"Trelawney?"

"Aye." Minerva poured herself another finger of whiskey but didn't drink it. “Rolanda and Sybill started drinking together over the summer. What began as occasional sherry tastings spiraled into something more... problematic."

Harry leaned back in his chair. "I'm surprised Trelawney still has a job here. I know how much you hate Divination."

A sigh escaped Minerva's lips. "Despite how I feel about her, she stayed and fought in the Battle of Hogwarts. Kicking her out now would be cruel, considering that Hogwarts has been her home for almost two decades." 

She swirled the amber liquid in her glass. "Besides, Divination has seen a resurgence in interest, and I blame you for it."

"How so?"

"Everyone knew about the prophecy that said you would defeat Voldemort. When you actually did so, people started to think the subject wasn't as woolly as they previously believed."

"How is that my fault?" 

Minerva waved a dismissive hand. "Never mind that now. I need you to teach the flying lessons for the first-years. I will look for a more permanent solution before the first Quidditch game is played."

"Okay."

Harry followed her down the spiral staircase and through the castle corridors. The Great Hall's massive doors stood open, revealing hundreds of students at breakfast.

Conversation died as they entered. Heads turning to track their progress toward the staff table. Harry spotted Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table, who waved at him.

"Always knew how to make an entrance, didn't you, Potter?" Flitwick squeaked as Harry took a seat beside him.

Professor Sprout patted his arm from his other side. "Don't mind the staring. They'll get used to you soon enough."

Minerva remained standing to address the students. When she raised a hand, the few remaining whispers died immediately.

"Settle down. Now, as you already know, Madam Hooch has resigned. While I find another flying instructor, Mr. Potter will be teaching the flying lessons for the first-years. I expect you to treat him with respect, just like any other professor."

"No one is going to disrespect the Dark Lord slayer!" a voice shouted from the Hufflepuff table. "He can end our lives in a second!"

Laughter rippled through the hall. Harry rose from his seat, scanning the tables until he found the speaker—a fourth-year boy whose grin faltered under Harry's stare.

"I only use my abilities to deal with criminals," Harry said. He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the hall. "And anyone calling me a Dark Lord slayer."

The Hufflepuff blanched and ducked under his table, provoking another round of laughter. 

As students returned to their breakfast, Harry walked down from the staff table. He ignored the whispers that followed him, making a beeline for the Slytherin table where Daphne sat with her back to him.

He slid onto the bench beside her, deliberately ignoring her warning glare, and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. 

Harry felt the weight of dozens of stares boring into him. One gaze burned more intensely than the others. A boy—first year by his size—glared with undisguised hostility, his knuckles white around his fork. When Harry caught his eye, the boy looked away quickly, focusing on his breakfast with exaggerated interest.

Harry frowned. Was the boy related to one of the Death Eaters he'd killed? Such hatred seemed excessive for someone so young.

"Who's that?" he whispered to Daphne, inclining his head toward the boy.

"Ellis Parker," she murmured. "He’s a Muggle-born."

"In Slytherin?" Harry's surprise must have shown on his face, because Daphne shot him a reproving look.

"The hat doesn't discriminate based on blood status." She glanced at the boy, who now studiously avoided looking their way. "Even with the war over, there are still lines of division in Slytherin. He's pretty isolated from the others. I tried to help him but he keeps rebuffing me."

"Why does he look like he wants to hex me?"

“I have no idea. Why don’t you ask him? He’s in your class today.”

“I might just do that.”

Harry didn’t like to leave things unresolved. There had to be a good reason behind the boy's hostility. 

"You've done it now," said the girl sitting across from Daphne. She had a heart-shaped face framed by chestnut curls, with shrewd hazel eyes that missed nothing. "The snakes aren't going to recover from the shock of learning one of their own is dating The Man Who Conquered."

"Another name I despise," Harry said. "Who are you?"

"Tracy Davis. Daphne's best friend." She looked at Daphne. "She should have mentioned me."

"I don't recall her ever mentioning you. Are you sure she is your best friend?"

"What?" Tracy's mouth dropped open.

"Don't tease her, Harry. She takes everything too literally," Daphne said.

Tracy leaned across the table, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. "So, have you slept with her yet? Have the two of you had a threesome with your other girlfriend? Can I get in on the action?"

Daphne shoved Tracy sideways with enough force to make her yelp. "Ignore her. She tries to live vicariously through me because she doesn't have a life of her own."

"I'm just saying out loud what all the older witches are all thinking," Tracy protested. 

Harry opened his mouth to respond when a shadow fell across the table. Professor Slughorn stood behind them, his walrus mustache twitching nervously.

"While we appreciate your enthusiasm for inter-house unity, Harry, perhaps the Great Hall during breakfast isn't the appropriate venue for such demonstrations?"

"Are you saying I shouldn't sit with my girlfriend, Professor?" Harry asked.

"Girlfriend?" Slughorn's eyebrows shot toward his receding hairline. His gaze darted to Daphne, then back to Harry. "You're a professor, Harry. You can’t be fraternising with the students.”

“Are you serious?” 

"The first-years are heading to the Quidditch pitch," Daphne interrupted. She gave Harry a pointed look. "You wouldn't want to be late for your first class."

Harry sighed and stood up. "See you at dinner?"

She nodded, lips pressed together to suppress a smile.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

The first-year students stood in two ragged lines on the Quidditch pitch. Harry paced before them, taking in their mixture of excitement and apprehension. The Gryffindors and Slytherins eyed each other warily, which brought some memories, both good and bad. 

"Right," Harry said, clapping his hands together. "Welcome to your first flying lesson."

He gestured to the row of battered school brooms lying on the grass. "These are—"

Harry paused, frowning as he took a closer look at the brooms. The wood was splintered in places, with bristles sticking out at odd angles. Some had twine wrapped around their handles to hold them together. They appeared even worse than he remembered from his first year.

"These are completely unacceptable," he muttered, kneeling to inspect one particularly decrepit specimen. 

Harry straightened, making a snap decision. "Wait here. Don't touch the brooms."

He rose into the air, ignoring the gasps from the first-years as he shot toward the castle like a bullet. The students would be fine for ten minutes. He'd make it quick.

Flying through McGonagall's open office window, Harry explained the situation in three rushed sentences before diving into her fireplace. One Floo trip to Diagon Alley later, he emerged from Quality Quidditch Supplies with twenty-four shrunk Nimbus Two Thousands in his pockets. 

The shopkeeper had nearly fainted when Harry Potter demanded their entire stock, but recovered quickly enough to offer a substantial bulk discount. Back at Hogwarts, an impressed McGonagall approved his purchase for immediate use, promising the Board of Governors would reimburse him in due course. Not that he cared.

"Sorry about that," Harry said, touching down on the pitch where his class waited. 

He pulled the tiny packages from his pockets and restored them to full size with a flick of his wand. "These will serve you better than those deathtraps."

The students' eyes widened as he distributed the new brooms. Even the most reticent Slytherins couldn't hide their excitement.

"What about the old ones, Professor?" a Gryffindor girl asked, pointing to the discarded school brooms.

With a sharp gesture, he sent blades of compressed air slicing through wood and bristles, reducing them to a shower of splinters.

"They've been decommissioned," he said dryly, turning back to the stunned class. "Now, everyone stand beside your broom, hold your right hand over it, and say 'Up!'"

The lesson progressed smoothly. The new brooms responded with enthusiasm, leaping into their owners' hands. Even the most nervous students managed basic hovering by the end of the hour. Harry moved between them, adjusting grips and offering encouragement.

He noticed Ellis Parker hanging back from the others, though his flying ability exceeded most of his classmates. The boy executed a perfect hover-turn-descend sequence with barely a glance at Harry's demonstration.

As the lesson drew to a close, Harry asked a confident Gryffindor to lead the others in one more circuit of the pitch. He walked over to where Ellis was methodically cleaning his broom.

"Well done today, Parker. You've got natural talent."

Ellis didn't look up. "Thank you, sir."

"Have you flown before?"

"No, sir.".

Harry crouched beside him. "Is there a reason you're avoiding looking at me?"

Ellis finally met his gaze, his blue eyes cold. "No, sir."

"I get the feeling you don't like me very much."

"I don't know you, sir."

"But you have an opinion all the same," Harry pressed. "I'd rather hear it directly than have you glaring daggers at me."

Ellis's hands stilled. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

The boy's composure cracked. 

"Where were you?" Ellis burst out, his voice low but intense. "When they came to my house?"

Harry's stomach dropped. "Who came?"

"Death Eaters." Ellis finally looked up, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Three of them. Mum hid me in the cupboard. Made me promise not to make a sound, no matter what I heard. I listened to them die."

"I'm sorry."

"The orphanage is full of kids like me." Ellis's words tumbled out now, as if a dam had broken. "Magical children whose Muggle parents couldn't protect them.”

"Not all—" 

"Everyone says you're this great hero," Ellis interrupted. "That you saved us all. But where were you when it mattered? Before everyone died?" 

His hands trembled as he gripped the broom. "They say you hid for months. That you ran away while people were being killed."

The accusation hit Harry like a physical blow. Ellis stood abruptly, his jaw set in a hard line.

"I should get back to practice, sir."

Harry watched him walk away, the weight of the boy's words settling on his shoulders like a stone.

"Bloody wind," he muttered.

It dawned on him how naive he'd been. While he was off playing Quidditch and hero, so many victims were falling through the cracks in the flawed system. It was a painful realisation that he should be doing more. He had the resources, and the influence, to have a positive change on the magical world.

His mind flashed to Regina Bowles. If someone had helped her, would she have turned out the way she did? Was Ellis going to go down the same path, filled with hatred and resentment? Were there others out there who were the same?

For all his power, all his wealth and influence, Harry hadn't seen the aftermath clearly enough. He'd focused on the victory, on rebuilding what was broken, without fully comprehending those who had been irreparably shattered by the war. The system—the one he'd fought to save—was failing the most vulnerable.

As the students landed and filed off the pitch, chattering excitedly about their new brooms, Harry remained still, the weight of his revelation pressing on him like a physical force. He'd saved the wizarding world, but perhaps it needed more than saving.

It needed changing. 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry hovered above the Pride of Portree stadium. Below, fans in purple and gold streamed through the entrance gates, their excited chatter carried to him on the wind. The match against the Appleby Arrows wouldn't start for another half hour, giving him ample time to scan for threats.

Zephyr and Eurus swept through the crowd like invisible scouts. Harry had them searching for anything suspicious, and would act if they deemed it necessary. 

Harry was fresh off a win against the Montrose Magpies. Yesterday's match against them had been harder than anticipated. Despite pre-game confidence, the Tornadoes found themselves battling from behind as the Magpies' veteran Chasers systematically dismantled the Furies' defensive formations. By halftime, Montrose led by seventy points, their tactical discipline frustrating every counterattack. 

The turning point came three hours into the second half when Harry spotted the Snitch hovering near the Montrose goalposts. His capture gave the Tornadoes a narrow lead, forcing the Magpies to abandon their measured approach in pursuit of quick points. Brevis and Keith capitalised on their desperation, sending precisely aimed Bludgers to disrupt each offensive push. The final whistle saw Tutshill clinging to a thirty-point victory, missing the bonus point but securing two league points.

While the win maintained their undefeated start, the close margin revealed vulnerabilities that would need addressing before next weekend's clash with Puddlemere United. Iggy had already scheduled additional training sessions, focusing on the Furies' defensive positioning and transition play. The victory celebrations had been muted, overshadowed by the knowledge that stronger teams would exploit the weaknesses Montrose had exposed.

Movement in the northwest stand caught Harry's attention. A man in an Arrows scarf was moving against the flow of the crowd, his hand repeatedly checking an inner pocket. Harry focused his wind senses, detecting the outline of something cylindrical inside the man's robes.

"Not on my watch."

The men, wearing Death Eaters uniforms, met two others in a corridor beneath the stands. They spoke in hushed tones, heads bent together as one produced a cloth-wrapped bundle. Harry strained to hear their conversation.

"...explosives in section D. Maximum chaos..."

"...the Fiendfyre packets ready?"

Harry's blood ran cold. Fiendfyre, in a wooden stadium packed with thousands? The carnage would be unimaginable.

He dropped his invisibility, wind swirling around him as he descended. Before the conspirators could react, compressed air slammed them against the wall, pinning them in place.

"I don't think so," Harry said, plucking the dangerous package from frozen fingers.

"Potter!"

Harry's focus wavered for just a fraction of a second as he examined the package. It was enough. A fourth wizard appeared in the corridor, and raised his wand.

"Confringo!" he screamed, aiming not at Harry but at the ceiling above them.

Harry's wind barrier deflected the worst of the blast, but the explosion rocked the corridor. Concrete dust and splinters showered down as part of the ceiling collapsed. A support beam crashed to the floor, missing Harry by inches.

The leader seized his chance, jabbing his wand at the package in Harry's hands. "Incendio Maxima!"

Harry flung the package away just as flames erupted from it, scorching the sleeve of his robe. The cursed flames spread unnaturally fast, consuming the wooden panels lining the corridor wall.

He summoned wind with brutal intensity, compressing air into a vacuum around the flames. The Fiendfyre fought against his control, straining to break free and consume the stadium. Sweat beaded on Harry's forehead as he poured more power into the containment. 

With a final surge of effort, Harry closed his fist. The wind barrier contracted violently, crushing the Fiendfyre into a pinpoint of light before snuffing it out completely. The corridor fell silent save for the distant screams of panicking spectators.

Shouts erupted from the end of the corridor. Stadium security sprinted toward them, wands drawn. In the confusion, several fans spotted Harry, and panicked cries of "Attack!" spread through the concourse.

The screams triggered a chain reaction. Spectators surged toward exits, creating dangerous crushes at bottlenecks. Security wizards divided their attention between the growing chaos and the captured attackers.

Harry seized his opportunity. With a subtle gesture, he loosened his wind grip just enough. The conspirators broke free and fled, disappearing into the panicked crowd.

A security wizard approached, his face flushed. "What happened? Did they get away?"

"Focus on crowd control," Harry said, handing him the confiscated package. "I'll track them."

The wizard nodded, rushing to help his colleagues direct the evacuation.

Invisible once more, Harry soared above the stadium, watching the tiny dots of his quarry fleeing the grounds. Exactly as he'd planned. Before their escape, Zephyr and Eurus had attached themselves to the attackers, going along for the ride.

The spirits reported their targets' movements as they Apparated away. Harry followed the connection, using his Wind Walker ability to move at breathtaking speed. The trail led to a remote manor in the Yorkshire moors, its stone walls surrounded by rolling heather and ancient oaks.

Powerful wards shimmered around the property like heat waves. Impressive defenses, but ultimately futile against his abilities.

Harry gathered the air around him, compressing it into a battering ram of pure elemental force. The first strike cracked the outer ward like glass. The second shattered it completely. He tore through each subsequent layer, the magical barriers collapsing under his assault.

With a flick of his wand, he cast an Anti-Apparition Jinx, sealing the property. 

Alarms blared inside the manor. Figures scattered like startled insects, some firing spells blindly into the air. Harry neutralised each attacker with a ball of compressed wind—non-lethal but incapacitating. He searched them, taking their wands before binding them in conjured ropes.

Harry strode through the mansion, systematically checking every room. The upper floors yielded nothing of interest. The kitchen revealed preparations for a large gathering, with dozens of place settings laid out.

The basement door was hidden behind a tapestry. Harry descended stone steps into darkness, casting lumo’s to provide some illumination.

The chamber below stole his breath.

Hundreds of candles illuminated a shrine dominating the far wall. At its centre hung a massive painting—a figure wreathed in storm clouds, lightning crackling from outstretched hands. The face bore an unsettling resemblance to Kaze, yet different—harder, crueler.

Below the painting stood an altar made from polished black stone with several books lying open upon it.

Harry moved closer, examining the runes carved into the altar's surface. They matched those from Carina Black's grimoire—the one describing Typhoon's supposed death. But these were newer, recently carved.

A leather-bound journal caught his eye. He flipped it open, his stomach clenching as he read the first entry:

The Great Typhoon lives. His vessel is ready. The Black bloodline shall restore him to glory.

The final page contained a single line, dated just three days ago:

We just need the child. Once Potter is sufficiently distracted, we shall make our move.

Harry staggered back, pieces falling into place with horrifying clarity. The Dark wizard sympathisers were preparing for Typhoon's return.

And somehow, a child was involved.

"Teddy. Delphini," Harry whispered, cold dread washing over him. 

Harry stormed back into the mansion's main hall, fury building with each step. The bound attackers lay where he'd left them. He grabbed the nearest one by his robes, dragging him into a sitting position against the wall.

"Let's see what you're hiding," Harry growled, his eyes shifting from azure to blood-red.

The Black Wind surged through him, his consciousness plunging into the man's mind like a battering ram. He searched dozens of memories but nothing that provided him with any useful information. 

Harry pushed deeper, searching for names, locations, anything that might reveal the cult's leadership. But the man knew little of value. He was a low-ranking follower, kept deliberately ignorant of the larger plan.

Moving to the next prisoner, Harry repeated the process. This mind yielded even less—just blind devotion to their cause and hatred for those they considered traitors to wizarding tradition.

By the fifth mind, Harry's frustration reached its peak. He slammed his fist into the marble floor, cracking it.

"Useless!" he shouted, the Black Wind pulling back into him like a receding tide.

He ripped the masks from their faces one by one, but didn’t recognise any of them. They had to be low-level grunts. 

Harry drew his wand and summoned his Patronus. The silver eagle burst forth, its massive wings spanning the hall.

"Kingsley," Harry addressed the majestic creature. "I found a terrorist hideout in a manor in the Yorkshire moors. At least a dozen Death Eaters incapacitated. Send Aurors immediately. Coordinates to follow."

The Patronus soared away, disappearing through the mansion's stone walls.

Zephyr and Eurus materialised beside him.

"Guard them," Harry instructed, pointing to the prisoners. "If any wake up before the Aurors arrive, knock them out again. Don't let anyone leave."

The spirits bobbed in acknowledgment, taking positions at opposite ends of the hall.

A familiar sensation prickled at the back of Harry's neck—a disturbance in the wind network he'd established over Britain. Something was wrong at Andromeda's cottage. The subtle alarm he'd woven into her home's protective wards was screaming for his attention.

Harry disappeared with a crack, reappearing on a hillside overlooking Andromeda's property. His blood froze at the sight below.

Five hooded figures surrounded the cottage, their wands aimed at the protective wards. Blue light crackled where their spells struck the magical barriers, each impact causing the wards to flicker like a failing lightbulb.

Andromeda stood on the front lawn, wand drawn. She'd clearly realised she couldn't outrun them—not with a child to protect. As Harry watched in horror, the wards collapsed with a sound like shattering glass.

"Take the child alive," one of the attackers called out. "Kill the woman."

A jet of green light shot toward Andromeda. She twisted away, the Killing Curse missing her by inches.

Something snapped inside Harry. Wind roared around him, responding to his rage with deadly precision. He didn't think, didn't hesitate—just acted on pure instinct.

A blade of compressed air sliced through the night, catching the lead attacker at neck level. His hooded head tumbled from his shoulders before he registered the attack, his body collapsing in a heap.

The others turned, wands raised, but they were too slow. Harry descended upon them like a hurricane. Wind hammers struck with surgical precision, shattering bones and rupturing organs. Within seconds, three more attackers lay unconscious or dying on the grass. The fifth turned to flee, finding himself trapped by the Anti-Apparition Jinx they'd cast themselves.

"Please," the man begged, dropping his wand. "I was just—"

A blast of wind slammed him into Andromeda's garden wall, knocking him unconscious.

Harry landed beside Andromeda, who stood trembling, her knuckles white around her wand. 

"It's okay," Harry said, pulling her into a fierce hug. "I took care of them."

"Why were they here, Harry?" 

"Now's not the place to get into it." He glanced at the bodies scattered across her garden. "Pack some things for Teddy and yourself. You're coming with me to Grimmauld Place."

"What about them?" Andromeda asked, looking at the attackers.

Harry’s eyes hardened. "I will deal with it."

Andromeda frowned. “No more killing.”

“They deserve it.”

“Harry James Potter.” The sharpness in her tone could have cut glass. “While I’m sure they deserve it, I don’t want you to kill when it’s not absolutely necessary.”

“I will hand them over to the Aurors.” He paused, glancing toward the horizon. “We need to hurry up. Your sister’s family might be in danger.”

Andromeda nodded. She rushed back into the house to grab Teddy and to pack some clothes. 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Harry slumped in his armchair, the events of the day weighing on him like a physical burden. Daphne and Ayano flanked him on either side, their presence a silent comfort. Across the coffee table sat the most unlikely gathering Grimmauld Place had ever hosted: Andromeda cradling a sleeping Teddy, Narcissa with Delphini bouncing on her knee, Draco looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, and Lilith Moon hovering beside him.

Daphne squeezed his hand, sensing his mood. The headache pounded behind his eyes—a lingering punishment for his use of the Black Wind. 

When he'd arrived at Malfoy Manor, Harry had intended to extract just Narcissa and Delphini. Narcissa had flatly refused to leave without her son, and Draco—in a rare display of selflessness—wouldn't abandon Lilith to potential reprisals. 

The aftermath of the attacks had been a bureaucratic nightmare. Kingsley arrived personally at the Yorkshire mansion, his expression grave as Harry walked him through the scenes of battle. 

Harry had carefully concealed the shrine before the Minister's arrival, transfiguring the altar into a mundane table and replacing the demonic imagery with innocuous landscape paintings. The journal and ritual texts were safely shrunk in his pocket.

He would handle Typhoon his own way—the Ministry wasn't equipped for this kind of threat. Kaze had already departed, searching for additional clues and any trace of his ancient adversary. 

At Andromeda's cottage, the scene grew more complicated. Theodore Nott's headless corpse required extensive explanation, with Harry recounting the attack in clinical detail. The fact that he'd killed a pure-blood heir would have caused significant problems if not for Andromeda's testimony that Harry had acted in her defense. Even so, Robards, the Head Auror, had lectured him about using excessive force.

Harry listened to the lecture but didn’t care about killing Theodore. No one threatened his family.

The Pride of Portree stadium added a third crime scene, requiring Harry to explain how he'd deliberately allowed the bombers to escape. Kingsley's frustration had been palpable but the discovery of the Death Eaters’ headquarters mollified him somewhat.

By the time Harry returned to Grimmauld Place with his expanded household, dawn was breaking over London, and his patience had worn thinner than parchment.

"We need to discuss our situation," Andromeda said, breaking the silence. 

Harry raised a hand. “I would rather forget about it for the moment. There's something else I want to discuss.”

“What is it?”

"Something I learned at Hogwarts." 

He described his encounter with Ellis Parker and the other orphaned students—children whose lives had been shattered by the war, now adrift in a system ill-equipped to support them.

"The orphanage is overcrowded," Harry explained. "These kids have no one advocating for them, no real home to return to during holidays."

"What are you proposing?" Andromeda asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Harry admitted. "But I have resources—properties, money. There must be something we can do."

"A foundation," Daphne suggested. "To provide scholarships, housing, and emotional support."

"Or a proper wizarding orphanage," Ayano added. "One that actually cares for the children instead of warehousing them."

Harry nodded slowly. "That could work." 

He turned to Andromeda. "Which brings me to another matter. I'd like you to take the Black seat on the Wizengamot—as my proxy until I'm old enough.”

Andromeda's eyebrows rose. "Me? Not Narcissa? She has more experience in these matters"

"You understand both worlds," Harry said. "Magical and Muggle. These children need someone who can navigate both systems. Plus, I don’t trust Narcissa."

Narcissa sniffed. “Even if I wanted the position, I doubt I would be welcome.” 

"It would be a significant commitment," Andromeda cautioned.

"One you're uniquely qualified for," Harry insisted. "We can't just defeat Voldemort—we need to heal the wounds he left behind. Otherwise, we're just waiting for the next Dark Lord to rise from another generation of neglected, hurt children."

"Like Regina," Ayano murmured.

"Like Tom Riddle himself," Harry agreed. "The cycle has to end somewhere."

Andromeda studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "I'll do it. For Teddy's generation, if nothing else."

"I can help," Narcissa offered quietly. "I know how the Wizengamot operates.”

"Then it's settled," Harry said, feeling some of his weariness lift. "We'll start planning tomorrow."

He glanced around the room at the unlikely allies fate had thrown together—former enemies and new friends united by circumstance and common purpose. 

“Wait until Ron hears about this,” Harry mused. “He’s going to have a fit.”

Draco snorted. “I would love to see that.”

“Be quiet. Or I will have you sleep with Kreacher.” 

Kreacher apparated into the room. “Have I done something to upset you, Master?”

Harry grimaced. “Sorry, Kreacher. I would never force you to suffer Draco’s presence.”

“Shut it, Potter.”

So, what do you think? In the next chapter, the Quidditch season continues and Harry sets up a charity.

Thanks for reading.