"A phoenix," Richard remarked, turning his gaze towards the bird. "A fascinating and exceedingly rare specimen of magical fauna. I've heard they can teleport together with rather large loads."
"We wizards generally say Apparate," Dumbledore corrected calmly, likewise looking towards the phoenix. "Yes, Fawkes is a remarkable creature, and his abilities are truly astonishing."
The Headmaster turned back to Richie and said:
"Richard, magical power can be intoxicating at times. It begins to seem as though one may do anything and suffer no consequences. But in truth, that is not so."
Richard disliked where the Headmaster appeared to be leading the conversation. It became clear to him that Dumbledore had not believed in his innocence. Deciding to probe further, he asked:
"Headmaster Dumbledore, have you ever collected anything?"
"Yes, my boy," Dumbledore replied. "I adore sweets and hope one day to sample every kind that exists in the world."
"As for me, sir, I like comic books. They're illustrated stories about people with supernatural abilities or fantastical devices."
"I know what comic books are," the Headmaster replied.
"When I first learned about the wizarding world, I decided to assemble a collection of objects once owned by comic-book heroes. That was precisely why the magical workshop was created. Merely a collection, sir — nothing more. So the Minister's accusations came as just as much of a surprise to me as they did to you. There's no need to lecture me, Headmaster. For me, losing part of my collection would be rather like you losing your sweets. One can survive it, certainly, but there would be very little pleasure in it."
"Well then, Mister Grosvenor, I very much hope that Muggles will no longer steal from you," the Headmaster said pointedly, fixing the boy with a heavy gaze.
"I hope so as well."
Richie forced a dazzling smile onto his face. It cost him a tremendous effort. The boy felt a terrible inner tension and feared the Headmaster the way any sensible person fears finding himself in the company of a madman.
"Well then, I shan't detain you any longer with an old man's rambling," Dumbledore said. "Off you go, my boy, and try not to misbehave. Use your toys wisely, and do not scatter them through the corridors…"
"All the best, sir. Thank you for the delightful conversation."
Richard maintained his straight-backed posture and composed expression only through immense effort. Not until he had left the Headmaster's office and put a respectable distance between himself and it did he finally allow himself to falter.
A wave of goosebumps raced across his body, his muscles suddenly turning to jelly, while his limbs grew heavy as though sacks of sand had been tied to his arms and legs. Richard hunched over, as if all the air had been let out of him at once like a punctured balloon. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, his skull throbbed with a splitting migraine, and even breathing became difficult.
The young lord leaned his back against the cold stone wall and tried to gather his thoughts, but after enduring such stress his mind refused to function properly.
Somehow forcing his will back under control, Richie trudged towards the Hospital Wing.
Richard was absolutely certain that Dumbledore knew far more about the Grosvenor workshop than ordinary wizards did. Which meant there could be no doubt that the Headmaster had long ago guessed the identity of the troll's vanquisher. That unsubtle remark about toys in the corridors… Few would fail to realise he had been referring to the torn-off robot tentacles.
The old man is dangerous and anything but harmless, just like any madman, Richard thought as he made his way towards the healer. Men like that either have to be mobbed at once, or else accommodated while dancing to their tune.
And what a wonderfully convenient situation with Fudge… Everything went far too well for Dumbledore and far too badly for me. Now the Minister for Magic is set against me. The whole thing reeks of a classic divide-and-rule scheme, as though someone deliberately pushed the Minister towards arresting me in order to drive a wedge between Fudge and the Grosvenors, and therefore between the Ministry and the Royal Family — which is to say, effectively, the British government itself.
I can feel it, every fibre of me feels it: Dumbledore's beard is sticking out from behind all of this. The trouble is, instincts aren't evidence. Everything was arranged far too neatly for there to be any proof.
The school matron, Poppy Pomfrey — a blue-eyed middle-aged witch in a lilac dress beneath a white apron, with a white cap perched upon her head — immediately sprang into action the moment she saw the state Grosvenor was in. She made the boy drink calming and strengthening potions before settling him upon a hospital bed and ordering him to rest.
After taking the potions, Richard began to feel somewhat better. His thoughts cleared, and he continued to reflect.
Fudge is an idiot! If he'd brought that ridiculous little note directly to me, everything could have gone differently. Fool! Had the Minister merely hinted at possible legal troubles, he could have wrapped me around his finger. I'd have paid a handsome bribe without hesitation — and I could easily have kept the Minister's pockets comfortably lined on a permanent basis. Is he truly so stupid that he cannot see the obvious?
(End of Chapter)
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