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Harry Potter: I Get Stronger by Taking Loans - 161
🕑 Added 2025-11-25 21:36:03 +0000 UTCChapter 161: Frank the Thunderbird, The Hunt Begins
The Thunderbird Sanctuary.
Leo followed Newt and Stanley, Apparating to the foot of a high mountain.
Rumble.
Thunder rolled across the sky. A mass of black cloud sagged low over the peak.
Newt tilted his head back, sniffed the air, and listened to the rhythm of storm and silence.
“The gap between thunder and lightning is down to five seconds,” he said. “There is more moisture in the air as well. The timing fits. The Thunderbirds should have finished their mating flights by now.”
Stanley nodded. “Yes. Between the end of mating and the start of egg‑laying is when Thunderbirds are at their easiest to approach.”
Leo walked behind them, listening and memorising. Lessons like this were rare. Books could only go so far; travelling with experts was another kind of education entirely.
A sharp, piercing cry suddenly cut through the thunder, rushing down from the peak.
Newt and Stanley reacted at once, drawing their wands. It was a Thunderbird’s call, the sign of one diving toward them at high speed.
Leo drew his wand as well, but there was no tension in his shoulders. If anything, he looked curious.
The unicorn’s blessing had let him hear the meaning in that note.
“Old friend, you are here!”
A second call followed, softer but closer.
Newt’s expression shifted. He put his wand away.
A shadow swept over them. In the flash of a lightning bolt, a vast shape dropped out of the clouds and landed a few dozen metres away.
Even at that distance, the downdraft nearly knocked them off their feet.
It was a gigantic bird with three pairs of wings. Its wingspan was enormous. The feathers on its back were a rich gold; those on its belly were pure white. Its tail plumes shone with a metallic lustre.
Most striking of all was the corona of golden feathers around its head, like a ring of sunlight.
Its eyes were keen and bright, as if lightning danced in their depths.
“Frank. It has been a long time,” Newt said, beaming as he walked forward to greet it.
The Thunderbird—Frank—took a few steps to meet him. When Newt drew close, it even lowered its proud head and touched its beak to his outstretched hand.
Leo remembered the stories. So this was the Thunderbird that had bathed New York in Forgetfulness Rain.
Thunderbirds lived a long time, easily a century or two. Frank should be in his prime.
Judging by that radiant crown of feathers, he was very strong.
The king of this stretch of mountains, perhaps.
Frank gave a soft cry and rubbed his head against Newt’s chest.
Newt listened, thinking as he stroked the bird’s neck. “All right, all right,” he murmured. “Where is it you want me to go?”
Frank called again. Newt had been about to puzzle it out, then remembered Leo was standing right there.
He turned, and Leo understood the look.
“Mr Scamander,” Leo said, “Frank wants you to check on his mate. She’s up on this peak.”
“Good,” Newt said. “Thank you, Leonardo.”
“You are welcome.”
Stanley’s brows rose.
Had Newt just asked the boy for help with a magical creature?
And had this twelve‑ or thirteen‑year‑old really understood what the Thunderbird wanted?
Stanley knew Thunderbirds well enough to catch the general thrust of Frank’s behaviour and cries. Leo’s version matched that perfectly, and in more detail than Stanley could have managed himself.
For the first time, he truly took Leo’s measure. Newt’s earlier praise—“very talented with magical creatures”—echoed in his mind.
Leo’s performance was enough to make him wonder if the boy was secretly Newt’s grandson. But he had met Newt’s grandson before, and it was not this child. They did not even look alike…
Frank let out another cry, this one high and delighted.
“Child, can you understand me?”
Leo ignored the “child” part. Frank was at least several decades old.
“Yes,” Leo said gently. “What else do you want to tell us? How can we help?”
The Thunderbird beat his wings in excitement and carefully stepped past Newt to stand before Leo.
“My mate is laying her eggs,” Frank said. “But it is taking too long. Much longer than before. You and Newt happened to come—will you help us?”
“No problem. Just a moment.”
Leo relayed the request to Newt and Stanley.
Newt was not surprised. He had watched Leo receive the unicorn’s blessing in the Forbidden Forest and knew he could speak with animals.
Stanley, who knew none of that, could only stare. The Thunderbird had chirped and shrieked for a few seconds. Leo had turned those noises into a precise request.
Could anyone really work that fast?
“Stanley. Let us go,” Newt called.
“Oh. Oh, right. Straight to the summit, then,” Stanley said, jolted back to himself. “I brought plenty of ingredients. We will have enough.”
To save time, Frank did not fuss. He simply let the three of them climb onto his back.
An instant later, he launched himself into the air.
Wind howled past. In only a few breaths, they were at the mountain’s crown.
Thunderbirds were too large to nest in trees. They carved their homes into rock.
A faint, pained, wavering cry floated out of the cave at the summit.
Frank answered, voice tight with worry, and dropped to the ledge.
Leo and the others slid down from his back.
Deep inside the cave, a bed of dry twigs and leaves had been carefully piled into a soft cradle.
A Thunderbird lay there, smaller than Frank by nearly half, her feathers even whiter than his.
“Do not worry. We are here to help,” Leo said softly, soothing the female’s fear.
Frank added his own calls in support.
…
Elsewhere, in a dense forest, the brown‑haired man and his band of poachers were checking their gear and going through their final plans.
“Sherry,” the man said to a black‑haired woman with striking red lips, “make it clean. One strike.”
She stretched lazily, her body curving in a way that made several of the men look away.
“Relax, Alistair,” she purred, tapping a finger against his chest. “Since when have you doubted my work?”
Seeing her still so at ease, Alistair’s eyes went cold.
“The whole job hinges on you,” he said. “If you fail, I will not be pleased.”
Sherry seemed immune to the threat. She only rolled her hips and sauntered toward the trees.
“Fine, fine,” she said over her shoulder. “The hunt starts now.”
With that, her figure vanished.
A black widow spider slipped between the blades of grass and into the undergrowth.
