When Richard got into the car, he found the detective and the security guard with equally wide eyes. They both turned their heads in the young gentleman's direction and remained silent for a moment.
Richard climbed into the back seat, looked at the men's long faces and asked:
- Gentlemen, is there something on my face?
"Sir..." Stephen began. "We heard your conversation and saw the flying car before it became invisible."
- Stephen, you better not tell anyone about this, otherwise they'll erase your memory.
"Yes, sir!" Stephen replied, his face pale, something you wouldn't expect from a special forces unit. "I can keep a secret."
Richard looked reproachfully at Scott. He pulled a listening device from under his jacket and placed it on the seat next to him.
- Mr. Potter, you promised that no one but you would hear anything.
"Dude, the headphones aren't perfect. You can hear everything inside the car, and it's freezing outside," the detective shrugged calmly. "Besides, if you wanted to keep everything a secret, you shouldn't have flown the car right over our heads."
"Damn it!" the driver muttered under his breath. "I've never seen a damn Ford Anglia fly like that damn DeLorean from the movie!"
***
Things were a bit unclear with Steve. The Duke of Westminster spoke with him, after which the driver returned to his calm, silent, and impenetrable self. But after a visit to Eaton Hall from a man whom young Rich recognized as the head of Her Majesty's Secret Service, everything fell into place.
The head of MI5 spoke politely to the Duke and exchanged a few words with the driver, after which he left without even staying for dinner.
Well, yes, would a mere special forces soldier guard an entire duke and his heir? Richard was ninety-nine percent sure Stephen was working for the British secret service. Even his reaction was somewhat understandable: "People with superpowers who live hidden from the common folk? As you say, sir. Secret information? Yes, sir! Continue guarding VIPs? Yes, sir."
And it seemed like routine was once again trying to lay its tentacles on Richard, but it couldn't...
The thought kept running through the young wizard's head: "Magic can do anything!" After what he saw, Richard wholeheartedly believed it. How could he not believe it, when with a simple wave of his wand he himself had copied matter and flown a flyer created from an ancient device by one man, literally on his own. Yes, not with the help of complex and advanced technologies, a vast production chain, or a multitude of engineers, scientists, and designers. One damn wizard in a backyard garage had transformed a wheeled car into a familiar flyer!
And what about the Hausdorff-Banach-Tarski paradox?! That's simply unbelievable, even for someone living in the distant future. To create something out of nothing, even with a few exceptions... This is the perfect confirmation of the maxim "Magic can do anything."
And now Richard was convinced that this world was more like a holographic series with a cosmic-scale supervillain. What would it take for an evil wizard to use a duplication charm on a nuclear bomb a hundred or a thousand times and then blow up the entire planet? Only moral standards and other wizards. But if the wizard police prove too weak to confront the supervillain, then a full exterminatus will ensue.
Richard had just begun a new life; he didn't want to die young. He didn't want to die, in fact. But what was he supposed to do? Warn the right people of the impending danger? What kind of danger?! The transmigrator didn't even know the name of the villain Harry Potter was supposed to confront. And what kind of danger the evil sorcerer posed was unknown. And who would trust a child, even if he were the son of a duke? So it seemed the only option left was to do it himself.
Well, how about doing it yourself... Richard was trained to be a duke and the manager of a major corporation. It's not his status to run around with a blaster at the ready, as they depict in action movies. He should manage, give orders, and provide material support to his subordinates, although it's not shameful to wave a blaster occasionally. But first, subordinates need to be found and recruited, then equipped with advanced technology. And if that's not available, magical artifacts will do. In essence, what difference does it make whether a flyer flies on factory-assembled antigravs or does the same thing with magic? The important thing is that the device performs its function.
The flyer was just a first taste. Richard needed large sums of money to implement all his plans. As historical wisdom says, the stronger economy wins war. Those with more money are in a winning position. And Richard was prepared to earn a lot and spend enormous sums to save humanity, his family, his friends, and, let's face it, himself.
But until the money was gone, he needed to survive and start somewhere. And Richard knew exactly where to start-building a research laboratory for wizards in Scotland. However, the boy only had about two hundred thousand pounds at his disposal. That was far too little if he needed to quickly erect a decent-sized building in the middle of nowhere.
When you don't have money, you have to earn it. Richard had many options. He could sell some of his shares, but then he would lose a significant profit, and his capital growth would stall, which would negatively impact future funding for important projects. The transmigrator could borrow another idea from the future and implement some hyped product. But experience showed that this would require time and money, and profits would start coming in at best in three to four months. A long time when money is urgently needed. And then the mentor's training came in handy, deciding to diversify her student's arsenal of spells. There was just one small problem: Richie didn't have a personal magic wand, and without it, he couldn't copy objects.
Like a decent man, Richard attempted to buy a wand in Diagon Alley the following weekend. He stopped first at Ollivander's, but the old man refused to sell the boy a wand without any argument.
Then Richard headed to Jimmy Kindle's shop. He had no luck there either, but at least Jimmy explained that wands weren't sold to young wizards under eleven.
Richard was angry. His nostrils flared. In a thoroughly unhappy mood, the boy hurried out of Diagon Alley.
Since no one would let the young Lord go for a walk alone, Richard was accompanied by Detective Potter.
- What, man, it didn't work out?
"Mr. Potter," Richard replied coldly, "you yourself were a witness. What is the point of this question?"
- Do you need this stick that badly?
- It is needed.
- For what?
- Mr. Potter, if I say it's to save the world, will you believe me?
- Maybe... Or maybe not. But, boy, what if I told you I have a magic wand?
Richard froze in his tracks. Remembering his upbringing, he tried to save face, but it was extremely difficult.
- Hmm... Where from, sir?
"Remember that cute piece of jewelry I used to wear?" the detective touched his eye. He'd recently had a nice bruise there.
- Sir, I have an excellent memory, I remember everything perfectly.