Harshing looked out of his Scottish cottage residence, sipping tea. He had resorted to a quiet life since the dark lords demise and settled in a small holding on the Scottish Coast in Fife. He drank tea and tended to livestock for most of the time while writing several articles for the daily prophet and completing a few novels for the mainstream. He endevoured in research projects but very suppressed his sadism.

For three years it had been like this - he had escaped azkaban by donating a LOT of money to the ministry and showing deep remorse for his actions.

He brought he cup to his lip then it smashed as a jet of light burst throught he window.

Harshing took his wand out in a well practiced gesture and in seconds the intruders were writing in pools of their own blood. He unmasked them to reveal they were faceless inferi.

He gathered his things in a single carry case, took his broomstick from its case and tossed several assorted items into his pocket. He mounted his broom and left the Fife dwelling heading straight for London. Coldstone Harshing was back in business.