Miranda frowned, her emerald eyes narrowed as she stared at the ashes of the tree drifting lazily through the air.
The once-sturdy branch Harry had been lounging on was now nothing more than glowing embers and faint wisps of smoke dancing in the breeze.
The scorched trunk split apart with a faint crack, its remains collapsing with a soft thud.
She hadn't expected to completely obliterate the entire tree, but she didn't regret it either.
If he wouldn't listen, she would force him to. Her arms dropped to her sides, and her brows furrowed in annoyance.
But before she could relax, a voice—calm, cool, and unmistakably amused—sounded behind her.
"That's a bit rude, don't you think?"
Her heart skipped a beat.
She turned around in a flash, her boots grinding into the scorched earth, only to see him.
Harry Ainsworth.
Standing there. Completely unscathed.
There were no signs of burns on him, not even a single scratch on his uniform.
