Richard's schedule at the end of February was overly hectic. Between studying, fencing, monitoring the stock market and periodically calling his broker to issue investment instructions, and two days a week of intense trading until he dropped, he had to spend the next two days a week working his magic.
Madame Marchbanks looked like a sweetheart, but in reality, she was an unyielding tyrant. At least, that's how it seemed to Richard. After all, he'd teleport to his mentor early in the morning, full of strength and energy, only to collapse back in the living room like a sack of potatoes in the late afternoon. He couldn't move his right hand from exhaustion for a long time. A wand might be light, but try waving one around all day. After that, it wouldn't feel so light anymore. By evening, the boy felt like he was swinging a crowbar. And yet, he also practices fencing and is used to swinging a rapier, which is no featherweight either.
Because the sorceress had thoughtlessly set the portal's exit point in the living room, the elder Rich had to let the servants leave early on weekends. The noble gentleman was forced to make this sacrifice for the sake of maintaining his secret. Richie could move from the living room without being seen, even if the servants were home, but who knows who might be in the living room at that moment. So, on Saturdays and Sundays, both Richs, oh horror of horrors, had to go to the kitchen BY THEMSELVES, get the food the cook had prepared that day, and heat it up.
Gerald's greatest experience cooking on his own was barbecues, using game he'd shot while hunting. The transmigrator, however, grew up surrounded by high technology and spent his entire life eating inexpensive convenience foods that only required reheating. For both father and son, reheating food on the stovetop was a feat and an endeavor. The Richs didn't have a microwave oven for a simple reason: the chef always served them food piping hot, freshly cooked, so such a household appliance was pointless in a professional, restaurant-quality kitchen.
Soon, at Gerald's order, the kitchen finally acquired a microwave and the gentlemen began to feel better.
Without days off, it would be difficult for anyone. Young Rich knew he couldn't keep up this pace for long and would go crazy. So he revised his schedule to include two days off a week: Friday, to rest before challenging spell training; and Monday, to rest and recharge after the spell. He cut fencing lessons to four times a week, still keeping them on Friday, but removing them from Monday, since Richard could barely lift a spoon on the first day of the week, let alone hold a rapier.
Thus, the school curriculum was cut in half. Consequently, the time until the ninth-grade exams was extended by the same amount. In other words, instead of a couple of months, school was expected to last four.
The first couple of weeks were especially difficult. But gradually, his young body adapted to the stress. After another month, Richard had completely adjusted to the schedule and no longer felt so tired.
March had just passed and April had arrived. The snow had melted, and spring greenery was beginning to appear. Young Rich was in high spirits on another Monday off. The boy decided to get down to business.
Four hours after the phone call, Detective Potter, wearing a rumpled gray suit, barged unceremoniously into Richard's office, briefly rapping his knuckles on the door. Leaving dirty boot prints on the parquet floor, he strode across the room and collapsed heavily into a chair.
"Hey, man!" the detective waved his right hand. "New deal?"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter," Richard replied calmly, ignoring the visitor's impudence. "Tell me, do you happen to have any missing relatives?"
After these words, the detective straightened up and became extremely serious. His gaze turned steely.
"I'm an orphan, kid. So what? You managed to find out something, huh?"
"Not exactly, sir. I was doing some charity work last winter and came across a dysfunctional family caring for a boy named Harry Potter. The name, as you can imagine, sounds similar to yours, so I asked."
"There are plenty of namesakes," the detective shrugged, but remained perfectly composed. "There are plenty of Potters in Britain. And this boy... who are his parents?"
"His mother's name is Lily, and her maiden name was Evans. His father is James Potter. I was only able to find out the names of the boy's grandparents on the Potter side-Fleamont and Euphemia."
The man jerked noticeably, as if he'd been slapped. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his jaw muscles began to twitch.
- I see you are familiar with these names, sir.
"Familiar..." the detective seemed to hear his teeth grinding as he spoke. "Those were the names of my parents, who sent me to an orphanage when I was eleven."
A puzzle formed in Richard's mind: eleven years old, the charming habit of pureblood wizards of disposing of their children born without magical abilities, an orphan detective whose parents shared the same name as Harry Potter's grandparents.
-Are you a Squib, Mr. Potter?
The steely glint in the man's eyes deepened. He asked in a stern tone:
- How do you know about wizards?
"Sir, I learned about them from Uncle Charlie," Richard smiled disarmingly. "The royal family is supposed to know about things like a hidden community of people with superpowers living within their borders. It turns out I'm a wizard myself, but I only learned about it recently."
- I see...
"Exactly, sir. I hope your dislike doesn't extend to all people with supernatural abilities. Frankly, I could live quite well without them. In fact, I'd give anything to avoid running afoul of the wizarding community. But fate loves to throw up surprises."
"Don't be afraid, boy, I know you-you're better than most wizards and you've earned my respect. Few boys your age are capable of shouldering such a burden. Any other kid, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, wouldn't even think of working so hard. So, what's up with my nephew? How and when did he become an orphan, and why didn't my damn parents take him into their care?"
"It's a murky story, sir," Richard folded his arms over his stomach. "It all started in the seventies. According to Prince Charles, there was a terrorist group operating in the wizarding world. Somehow, the Potter family crossed the path of the radical wizarding leader, who decided to get rid of them. He wanted to kill everyone, but Lily and James came up with some kind of protection for their child. Ultimately, the elder Potters died, and Harry survived, escaping with a scar on his forehead.
"What about my parents?" the detective asked.
- I don't know, sir. I suppose they died earlier.
"Let them burn in hell!" Mr. Potter muttered quietly, then added louder: "And where is my nephew now? How old is he and when did this story happen?"
"It all happened in the early 1980s. Harry was about a year old then. Actually, he's my age. The wizards, without thinking twice, gave the boy to be raised by Lily Evans' sister, Petunia and Vernon Dursley, who are far from wizarding, no matter how you look at it.