HP- Lost legacies of magic

It was just another typical day in slightly rainy London in April 1988; the grey clouds above covered the horizon, casting a heavy and somewhat depressing vibe over the bustling streets.

Unlike most days, today many children could be seen walking the streets at this late-morning hour. The Easter vacation had just started, and numerous families had opted to explore the capital's streets.

Theodore Blake—or Ted, for short—was one of them. An eight-year-old heir to the affluent Blake family, one of London's wealthiest business dynasties, Ted had just returned from his boarding school when his father suddenly decided he was to visit the National Gallery to "broaden his horizons," whatever that meant.

However, what truly bothered the boy wasn't the museum trip but the fact that his companion on this outing wasn't even his father, but Jessie, whom he absolutely hated. Jessie, a blonde maid who had been working closely with his father for a few years, was only around half his father's age.

Ted, who had been essentially raising himself since age four or five, was quite mature for his age. He was well aware of the kind of "work" the blonde woman did for his father, especially since he had walked in on them once—and they didn't really bother to put on an act.

Not wanting to attract attention to himself, he ordered his father's chauffeur, an old man named Henry, to park the head-turning Rolls-Royce a block away from the National Gallery, at the intersection of Strand and Charing Cross.

Unsurprisingly, as soon as the car disappeared from their line of sight, Jessie left him alone and wandered into a random jewelry store she had spotted on the way, leaving Ted standing alone in the middle of the intersection, looking up the long Charing Cross Road and wondering what he should do.

Glancing around, he could see several people observing him curiously; they must have seen him leave the luxury car and wondered who his parents were. Ted frowned a little; their stares made him very uncomfortable.

Fortunately, people on this kind of street never stood in one place for long. Soon, as they kept walking, they were replaced by others again and again until, finally, no one noticed Ted's existence anymore.

As he moved through the crowd, his eyes scanned both the people—like an endless river with tens or even hundreds passing him every minute—and the shops showcasing everything from clothing to sweets, gift stores, and restaurants, all filled with people coming and going like a stream.

His attention was caught by the unusually high number of oddly dressed people walking down the street.

Roughly every three minutes, a group of adults in long, multicolored robes passed by, all moving in the same northerly direction. The consistency suggested some organized event. Still, given London's tolerance for eccentricity, it was likely some themed gathering or niche occasion.

Simply making a mental note he saw no immediate reason to investigate the event and continued down the busy road as he searched for something to do. 

After just over twenty minutes of looking around, he decided to enter an old second-hand bookstore—the only silent shop along the street, except for a few pubs that wouldn't open for the next few hours.

As Ted entered through the door, a bell rang, alerting the shopkeeper to his presence. The shopkeeper, a woman in her early thirties, raised her eyes from the book she held for only a second before returning to it, disregarding Ted's existence. A kid without an adult was nothing more than a browser, after all; normal kids his age wouldn't carry money themselves.

This didn't matter to him. He wasn't an attention-seeker who would throw a tantrum over being ignored. Besides, he understood her reaction. Even though he was quite rich, he didn't show it off, wearing simple clothes typical for his age. He looked just like any other random kid; no one would guess he carried enough money to buy a family car on his person.

<= ><= ><= ><= ><= ><= > 

In the corner of the old, long, and narrow bookshop, a kid sat. His roguish, messy raven-black hair hid his eyes as his head leaned forward, hovering only a few centimeters above the yellowed pages of an old fantasy book.

Ted, who had spent the last few hours engrossed in any book that caught his attention, was nearing the end of another when the bronze bell above the door rang, alerting him to a customer entering the shop. Not many ventured into the old-looking bookshop.

Over the hours Ted spent there, only four people had walked through the door, and two of them had merely inquired about the restroom, despite its location on an active avenue.

As the new customer entered, Ted could only see the silhouette of a tall man in a dark raincoat, carrying an equally dark umbrella. Uninterested, Ted chose to ignore the man, lifting the book once more, eager to finish reading it.

<= ><= ><= ><= ><= ><= > 

It was already dark outside when Ted finished the eighth book, A Short Guide to Common Insects and Butterflies, which showcased various types of insects living in common households.

Walking toward the counter, Ted grabbed several random books from the shelves without bothering to read the synopses. By the time he reached the counter, the unbalanced pile of books had already grown taller than his head, his small hands visibly shaking under the weight.

These books were meant to last him through all of spring break. If he had more hands, he would probably have carried even more.

Ted was very bored during the holidays. He didn't have any friends at his school—not because he didn't want any, but because the situation didn't allow it. Since he was young, his father had always sent him to private education.

It started with an etiquette tutor when Ted was three. Those lessons took place twice a week for nearly a year. By that time, he was already well-versed in manners and had even impressed his teacher, a very rigid old lady named Margarethe Brice, who taught all the children of rich families in London.

In her words, "Theodore is an absolute genius. Teaching such a rare, clever young man is my pleasure and delight. Learning all his lessons in less than a year, and to such a high degree, is nothing but marvellous! Others often take ten or more!"

Ted didn't really understand the big deal. The lessons only covered reading and writing, followed by manners and some history of London's famous families and nobility—the content of which consisted of about five or six books.

This was also the time he gave up on his father's love. As the old tutor praised him, his father didn't even crack a smile, let alone offer praise; he merely remarked, "You will start piano next Monday," before going back to whatever he was doing.

By the time Ted was six, he had already studied piano, fencing, and chess to a level normal for a high-schooler and had read many books in his father's library—though Ted guessed it was actually his mother's, as he had never seen his father go there.

The library had quite the collection of fantasy books, which he had grown fond of. The idea of a magical world fascinated him.

When Ted reached school age, it was the first time he went outside their garden. His father had sent him to the most prestigious private school in London, though for him it was all the same, as the curriculum only consisted of basic material he already knew.

Reading books gave him knowledge far beyond that of others in his age group, so he spent his first year actually trying to make friends—and he succeeded, or so he thought.

It happened during a birthday party for one of the few kids who had chosen to speak with him — Larry Bright, the son of a minor businessman who had spent a small fortune getting his child into that prestigious school.

Ted, on his way to the restroom, felt a strange pull in his stomach as he climbed the stairs. It didn't feel like an ordinary stomach ache, though he couldn't quite explain why.

And just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Larry's father beckon his son over. Curious, Ted paused and drifted closer — only to overhear something that shattered his view of the world in an instant.

Larry's father was instructing him to befriend Ted. Not out of kindness or interest, but to use the connection — to build a business relationship with Ted's father.

Ted felt his stomach churn at the mention of his father and simply left Larry's house as fast as he could, tears forming in his bloodshot eyes. He didn't know how or when, but he finally reached his room, where he stayed for the remainder of his winter break, reading.

This experience left a deep scar on him, making it hard for him to trust other kids. Over the next few months, through various questions about their families, Ted discovered all his "friends" were the same. He hasn't made another one to this day.

<= ><= ><= ><= ><= ><= > 

As Ted reached the counter, the shopkeeper once again raised her head, this time finding an unstable, shaking pile of books right in front of her eyes. It took her quite by surprise, causing her mouth to hang open for several moments before she finally stood up to help the struggling Ted.

"What are you doing with this pile of books?" she asked after helping him organize them into three separate stacks on the counter. She seemed genuinely puzzled by Ted's situation.

"I want to purchase them, of course," Ted answered with a straight face as he took a £50 note out of his pocket, presenting it to the shopkeeper.

Looking at his deadly serious face, the shopkeeper felt an urge to laugh, then saw the note in his hand and realized the kid in front of her was actually serious, causing a sharp change in her expression.

Scanning Ted once more, she almost immediately ruled out the possibility that he had stolen it. The kid was well-groomed, and his seemingly ordinary clothes were, on second glance, high-end brands.

His slightly long black hair, almost covering his eyes, was shiny and clearly well cared for, and his silvery eyes, with just the slightest tinge of blue, gave them an ethereal quality. Clearly, he hadn't grown up in a poor environment.

Looking back at the books on the counter, she couldn't help but wonder what he planned to do with them. Some were about subjects like advanced physics, while others were science-fiction and fantasy novels.

They were clearly randomly picked, being so unrelated to one another. But that wasn't her job to judge, so she simply went back behind the counter and checked the books, finally giving him the price of £23.80 (a used book in 1988 cost around £1).

Realizing he had overestimated the price, Ted made a quick mental note about not considering that the books were second-hand. Reaching back into his pocket, he swapped the £50 for three £10 notes and handed them to the shopkeeper.

"Please pack them in a box; someone will pick them up in the morning," He said hurriedly and turned to the door. He was a perfectionist, and making that simple mistake actually made him quite angry with himself, causing him to forget his manners for a moment.

"What name should I put on the package? Who will pick it up?"

He was just about to leave when he realized he hadn't even given a name. "Blake," he added finally, not letting the shopkeeper say another word. He didn't notice the change in her expression as she finally recognized his background.

He might not have been famous, but his parents definitely were, and Ted looked like a male copy of his mother's face when she was alive, with short black hair instead of her long silvery white. His features, especially his eyes, were unmistakable.

Elara Blake's face was quite familiar across London—and even beyond—as one of the most celebrated actresses of her generation, starring in several record-breaking films. Her tragic death, shortly after giving birth to her son, had dominated headlines for weeks.

She had become something of an icon — a figure of grace, talent, and timeless beauty — remembered fondly, admired endlessly, and missed by many.

<= ><= ><= ><= ><= ><= > 

This chapter was originally separated into two parts that were merged and edited(I'm sorry if your comments were deleted as a result.)