"So that's how it is…"
"Exactly, sir. I hope your dislike doesn't extend to everyone with supernatural abilities. To be honest, I would have lived perfectly well without them. More than that—I would give a great deal just to never cross paths with the magical community at all. But fate has a fondness for surprises."
"Don't worry, kid, I know you. You're better than most wizards, and you've earned my respect. Not many boys your age could shoulder a burden like that. Any other lad born with a silver spoon in his mouth wouldn't even think of pushing himself this hard. So—what about my nephew? How and when did he become an orphan, and why didn't my damn parents take him in?"
"It's a murky story, sir," Richard said, folding his arms over his stomach. "It all started in the seventies. According to Prince Charles, there was a terrorist organization operating in the magical world. Somehow, the Potter family crossed the leader of these radical mages, and he decided to eliminate them. He wanted to kill everyone, but Lily and James devised some sort of protection for their child. In the end, the elder Potters died, while Harry survived—getting away with nothing more than a scar on his forehead."
"And what about my parents?" the detective asked.
"I don't know, sir. I assume they died earlier."
"May they burn in hell!" Mr. Potter muttered quietly, then added more loudly, "So where is my nephew now? How old is he, and when did all this happen?"
"It happened in the early eighties. Harry was about a year old at the time. In fact, he's my age now. The wizards didn't think twice—they placed the boy with Lily Evans's sister, Petunia, and her husband Vernon Dursley, people as far removed from magic as it's possible to be."
"Hmph!" The detective's face twisted. "That sounds like wizards, all right! They could've just dumped him in an orphanage… So what about the boy's foster family? You mentioned they're troubled."
"They might pass for an ordinary family—if I hadn't personally seen that they kept Harry in a cupboard despite having two spare bedrooms in the house. There was another shady detail: before my visit, the Dursleys weren't receiving any guardianship benefits. I decided to arrange payments for Harry through a charitable foundation until he comes of age, and I negotiated oversight of the Dursley family by both child services and the foundation. I'd also like to ask you to carry out occasional discreet inspections of the household."
"To hell with inspections!" the detective barked in a smoke-roughened voice. "I won't let my only blood relative live in a family that kept him in a cupboard!"
"Are you sure, sir?"
"One hundred percent." The detective's face flushed, his nostrils flaring with anger. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. After calming down a little, he continued, "I hope I'll be able to obtain custody. I went through two foster families myself as a kid, so I know what it's like when guardians treat you cruelly. At least I can manage raising one boy properly. I've got a two-bedroom flat in London—we won't be living on top of each other."
"Mr. Potter, if you wish, my father and I will do everything we can to assist you with the custody process. I believe it won't be difficult—there's already a report on the Dursleys for abuse of your nephew. They only kept their parental rights because I vouched for them. And even then, only because Harry asked me to."
"Hm…" The detective looked at young Grosvenor with respect. "Kid, you've got a bulldog's grip! You'll go far. I'd appreciate the help—though I do hope my connections at Scotland Yard will be enough. Do you still need additional information on the people from that list?"
"Mr. Potter, right now I more need different people—talented scientists and engineers working in robotics, microelectronics, and nanotechnology. Unfortunately, this time there won't be a handy list of names."
"I'll find them, kid," the detective said with firm confidence. "Believe me—I'll find exactly the people you need."
***
The following Saturday, when Richard arrived at Madam Marchbanks's house, a surprise awaited him. The elderly witch greeted him right in the entrance hall instead of, as usual, in the living room by the fireplace.
Over her dress, the old woman wore a warm robe, and atop her head sat a hat that could easily be called a work of art: a wide brim, black to match the robe, adorned with numerous ostrich feathers and ribbon flowers.
"My boy, I've been waiting for you."
"Good morning, Tutor. Are you going somewhere?"
"Richard, we're going to Diagon Alley. I need to replenish my stock of potion ingredients. Quickly now—hurry to the fireplace."
"All right… But why?" Richard asked, puzzled.
"Why, to travel to the proper place, of course. Well, well… You've never used a Floo fireplace before, have you?"
"No, ma'am."
"There's nothing complicated about it. Take a handful of Floo powder, toss it into the fire, clearly state the destination—'Diagon Alley'—and step into the flames, but only once they turn green. Watch."
The old woman scooped up a handful of dark gray powder from a ladle resting on a small stand near the fireplace. When she threw the powder into the fire, the flames changed from yellow to green.
"Diagon Alley!"
Richard's eyes went wide. Madam Marchbanks hadn't been joking about stepping into the fire. The witch strode into the flames so boldly that it looked like an entirely ordinary, perfectly safe action. Instead of the screams of someone burning alive, Richard watched as his mentor vanished in a burst of green fire. A moment later, the flames returned to their normal color.
(End of Chapter)
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