The sharp breeze whisks the oblong golden parchments over the path in rapid succession as if they were lost souls beckoned by the Pied Piper from a faraway grave. Magically, like a spell cast by Miss Granger, Harry Potter's good friend, lifted and abolished only to be superseded by more of the same. A hot sun warms the cool breeze fervently while drying the ochre leaves as they torrent northward to an undisclosed location. Autumnal cleaning.
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