Chapter 8

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***

Three months flew by like a day. Even Christmas had passed unnoticed for Richard, as he was so busy.

Passing the exams for the second year of high school went as smoothly as it could be. But because of the heavy workload, Richard spent a month more than he had spent studying the material for the seventh year of the school programme.

The boy decided to take a break for a couple of weeks before starting to study the next year's programme. Moreover, he could afford a longer period of rest, because the boy was already ahead of his personal schedule. The original plan had been to study the school course for a couple of classes during the year. But it worked out even better that way.

The beginning of February was snowy. If you looked out of the window of the young Grosvenor's office, you could see the snow-white expanse, among which were snow-cleared paths and a smooth motorway going far away.

If Richie were a normal child, he would have rushed outside to make a snowman, go sledging, and generally engage in winter fun in the fresh air. But he shuddered at the thought of going outside. No, Richard would rather stay out of the cold air and enjoy the warmth and cosiness of the manor, which he was doing.

Richard sat in a comfortable armchair in his study, looking through the documents and photographs that Detective Potter had given him.

All the papers were sorted into small folders - there was a file on each person. Some folders Richie set aside on the corner of the desk, some he tossed into the bottom drawer of the desk as unpromising.

When all the folders were sorted, Richard opened the newspaper to a page of stock quotes.

Suddenly there was a knock on the office door, and then, without waiting for an answer, the door opened and Gerald walked into the room.

Richard was surprised at first, for he was usually knocked on by servants who did not enter the room without permission. Only the valet allowed himself to enter the young master's bedroom without asking, and then only in the morning to wake him up. This allowed the boy, before he started covering himself with tricks, to train his mutant abilities without any problems.

- Richie, hi, what interesting things are being written?

The boy looked up at his father and replied on automatic:

- "Nestlé shares are at their peak, it doesn't look like it's worth buying. But Pepsi, in which I've invested ten million pounds, is falling after peaking in December. But I think it's temporary. In April or May, before the annual investor statements are announced, the share price will jump.

- Hm..." Gerald gave a meaningful hum. - Had you lost a lot of money?

Richie put down the paper and stretched out in surprise:

- What?! Ah! No, I didn't lose a penny. I took Pepsi stock at $9.44, and now it's at $9.83. Now I'm up $600,000. I'll be discounting them in the summer at the peak.

- That's good, as well as your success in general, - Gerald sat down on the sofa near the table. - Richie, I've been following your business and I have to say you're doing great. Bye! I hope you continue to do so, but son, you must realise that investments in securities are not reliable. They go up today, and tomorrow they can go down in value and you lose most of your capital. That's why I was very pleased with the way you started the business and a little surprised when you switched to securities instead of continuing to invest in the production of your goods.

- It's easier that way, Dad," Richard shrugged. - I can't produce and study at the same time. You remember the summer when I had to travel all over the world to sign contracts with manufacturers and buyers. Plus, staples are exhausted. It's a hype product that won't last long on the market. And it takes at least three or four months to come up with something new and realise the idea. Besides, it is better to produce something in your own factory rather than ordering it from someone else.

- All right, all right, I won't interfere in your affairs, as I promised," Gerald raised his hands as if he were surrendering. - But I know you've made some good money. Richie, now you should make a name for yourself. Any self-respecting big businessman should do charity work. It's good for the image. I don't suppose you'd mind giving a small donation.

- Mm-hm... Suppose so," Richard said thoughtfully. - I have a little money to spare. I think I can spend about fifty thousand dollars.

- Son, why are you using dollars instead of pounds?

- I'm sorry, I'm just used to the stock market reports, where I'm more comfortable with dollars.

- Also, the annual Royal Fundraiser is coming up again soon. But I'm covering the expenses. Until then, Richard, you'd better establish yourself as a philanthropist.

- OK... Why, any specific suggestions?

- For example, Ritchie, you could help orphans.

- Okay, no problem," Richard agreed.

He didn't really want to spend his money, but he realised that this was the elite's way of doing things. If you're rich but not a philanthropist, you'll be looked down upon. In addition, charity should bring a small plus to tax deductions. Donations can be deducted from your income as a tax break. If you make annual acts of giving for three years, however, you can deduct the amount spent on charity from the taxes that will be paid in the fourth year.

To give an example, Gerald Grosvenor spends a minimum of fifty thousand pounds on charity each year. Firstly, this amount is not counted as income. Secondly, in the fourth year he pays one hundred and fifty thousand pounds less in tax, which means that this money is returned to him.

Richard knew about this, so he decided to increase the amount of the gift to fifty thousand pounds. The main thing is to keep spending the next three years on charity to get his money back.

- Richie, I'll make arrangements with a charity that helps orphans. But for the first time, so that your activities do not go unnoticed, you will have to be active.

- I don't understand," Richard furrowed his brow. - Dad, what kind of activity? I give the money to the foundation and they spend it on a specific purpose. Isn't that right?

- That's right, but son, you have to realise that if you just give the money away, no one will know about it. So you'll have to visit a couple of orphans, personally supervise the targeting. Then the papers will say that young Lord Grosvenor is doing charity work, helping orphans. It will reflect favourably on your reputation and on the reputation of our family.

- Am I going to go to the orphans on my own?

- No, no, Richie," Gerald grinned good-naturedly. - Of course, you'll be accompanied by a representative of the charity, a social worker, a journalist, John and a chauffeur-guard.

- Oh, yes," Richard said sceptically. - I can imagine how 'happy' the children will be when such a crowd piles in. All right, I'll do anything.

- Great! - Gerald clapped his hands on his thighs happily. - I knew you'd understand the importance and necessity of such an action.

- Dad, I've decided that I'm going to give fifty thousand pounds to charity. Not dollars.

- All right, I'll keep that in mind. Son, be ready. I'll try to make arrangements for the trip this Saturday.

***

Saturday came surprisingly quickly. Richie had arrived in London on Friday and was staying at 70 Grosvenor Street. It was a necessity, for he had to travel to the outskirts of the capital to visit the orphans.

The door to the bedroom opened and John stood on the threshold. As usual, he was wearing a perfectly tailored three-piece suit.

The chamberlain noticed at once that his ward was awake. He said in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone:

- "Good morning, Mr Ritchie. What a lovely day. I remind you that you have a trip to a charity event in two hours. So hurry up and wash up. We'll be doing gymnastics without a trainer today, and then we'll have breakfast.

- I'm up now, John.

Richard went to the bathroom. From there he asked:

- John, how will our escorts get there?

- The journalist will come with us, and the social worker will be driven by a representative of the charity. First on our list is a visit to the town of Little Woking on the outskirts of London.

- I don't recognise it, but it sounds familiar," said Richie. - Couldn't the foundation have chosen orphans who live in the neighbourhood?

- I suppose, sir," the valet replied primly, "that there is no point in helping orphans living in the centre of London. They are well provided for.

- What's so special about Little Woking?

- A specialist charity worker said there had been complaints from neighbours that a foster son in one of the families looked out of place.

- What do you mean? - Richard looked at the valet from the bathroom to the bedroom with a look of bewilderment in his eyes.

- I'm sorry, Mr Ritchie, but I can't say for sure. The family seems to have a native son, and he looks well-fed and better dressed, while the adopted child looks like a wretch in rags.

- Why do we need such a complicated case? - Richard wondered.

- Sir, as I understand it, helping a child from a dysfunctional family like this one will have more media coverage. So it will have a more positive impact on your image as a philanthropist than a simple visit to a Foster family.

- In that case we'll need the help of a constable," Richard said. - I have confidence in the guard's abilities, but if this family is really dysfunctional, it's better to be on the safe side. I wouldn't want to end up in hospital a second time.

- Very good, sir. I'll pass on your wishes to the charity's representative. I reckon a police escort wouldn't be a bad idea.

When Richard and John left the house, a journalist was waiting for them on the doorstep and a Bentley Elite was parked on the pavement.

The girl with the shoulder-length light brown hair was not particularly attractive, just an ordinary young British girl with dimpled cheeks, brown eyes, a sharp chin and slightly slouching shoulders. Her breasts were not her virtue either, they were small, and because of the slouch and the closed green dress, which complemented the long black coat, it was difficult to see anything at all. The journalist looked about twenty-five years old, give or take two years. Average height.

- Fiona Bruce, BBC Text News South East," she introduced herself. - 'And you are John and Lord Grosvenor, I presume?

- 'Good afternoon, Miss,' John replied primly and arched his bow. - 'You are right.

- 'Good morning, Miss Bruce,' Richard said politely. - 'Pleased to meet you. Please," he pointed to the back door of the car.

- Oh, what a luxury car! - said the journalist. - It's the first time I've ever driven one. I don't want to get used to it," she added jokingly.

- It's nothing special," Richard shrugged his shoulders. - Four wheels, a steel body and a stinking hydrocarbon-fuelled engine. If it weren't for the status of the family name, I'd be driving something more environmentally friendly and economical that didn't eat three buckets of petrol per hundred miles.

The journalist laughed.

- That's a funny point of view, Lord Grosvenor," she said. - If you think about it, it does seem that status does encourage rich people to buy expensive cars.

Ritchie waited for the journalist to get into the car and got in himself. John took the front passenger seat.

- That's right," the boy answered the journalist. - Unfortunately, this has always been the case and will continue to be the case in the future. In the past, rich people used to buy expensive horses and custom-made carriages to show their status. Now cars, yachts and aeroplanes are in use. And in the future, wealthy people will buy expensive anti-gravity cars and flyers with trim made of exclusive natural materials, which will be available only for a huge amount of money.

The car started. The journalist took out a dictaphone, switched it on and asked:

- Richard... can I call you that?- No problem, miss. It's even more comfortable that way.

- I hear you're in business. Is that correct?

- That's correct. I started doing business last June when I finished junior high school.

- But aren't you nine years old? - Fiona asked in amazement.

- Nine, Miss Bruce. Some people think I'm a child prodigy, but really I just have a good memory. At the moment, I've already passed my second year of secondary school.

- Amazing! - The journalist's eyes widened in amazement. - I did not know that you are not only the heir to the title of Duke of Westminster and "Grosvenor Group", but also a prodigy. What do you do, Richard?

- Miss Bruce, you can just call me Richie.

- All right, Richie, but then you can call me Fiona!

- No problem. Fiona, what exactly are you interested in? Work or everyday life?

- Both.

- Well-" Richie paused for a few seconds to collect himself. - My daily schedule is very demanding. I start my mornings with calisthenics. Then I have a tutoring session for my school programme. After lunch, fencing practice. After lunch, self-study of study materials. At the same time, I pay attention to economic news and business matters.

- What can you tell me about your business, Richie?

- After passing my junior school exams, I had some free time. That's when I decided to go into business. My father lent me some start-up capital. At the same time, the idea to create something new was born. That's how I came up with the staples.

- Staples?!

Miss Bruce exclaimed in surprise so loudly that the driver and John shuddered. The journalist's face stretched with amazement.

- Was this really such unexpected information? - Richard raised his eyebrows questioningly.

- No one was aware of it," replied Miss Bruce. - I have a collection of staples myself. They're fun.

- Then, Fiona, you should visit Japan," Richard grinned. - Two rival retailers there have commissioned me to make different collections of personalised staples. They are fundamentally different from the European and American ones.

- So your company is not only supplying staples in Britain, but has also expanded into Japan and America?

- Good point," Richard nodded in agreement.

- What about hobbies?

- I love magic tricks.

A large gold coin appeared in Richie's palm. He tossed it in the air and it disappeared.

The journalist watched the action with genuine fascination.

- Do you see the coin, miss?

- 'No,' Fiona shook her head with a smile.

- 'But there is!

With these words Richie pulled the coin out from behind the journalist's ear.

Miss Bruce applauded. A wide smile graced her face.

- Magnificent! Manual dexterity? - she asked.

- No... It's street magic! - Richard replied with a smirk.

The journalist laughed in response. After laughing, she asked:

- Richie, what kind of games do you like to play?

- Fiona, unfortunately, I don't have time for games. My schedule is so busy that it's hard to find time for hobbies. So now that I have some free time, I decided to spend it on helping people in need instead of playing useless games.

- By the way, Richie, why did you decide to help orphans? - Miss Bruce asked.

- When I was a boy, it was just me and my father," Richard said, trying not to lie, but still presenting the facts in a way that was favourable to him. - I grew up in a well-to-do family, but not a complete one. I lacked a mother's love, which my father can't compensate for. That's why I want orphans to have a happy childhood. The only thing I can do for that is to help them financially.

The journalist's eyebrows rose in amazement. She asked:

- 'So, Richie, you earned your first money, but instead of spending it on toys and sweets, you give it to charity?

- I kept the sweets for myself, but that's basically right. Charity is a worthy endeavour. I'm a Grosvenor, so I should be setting an example for people!

The dull and grey morning was occasionally brightened by snow falling from the sky. The executive car entered the town of Little Winging and turned onto Yew Street. It was an ordinary middle-class suburban street. Small, identical yellow brick houses of two storeys over three bedrooms with an integral garage and a parking space in front of the house.

Yew Street has never witnessed the passing of an expensive Bentley car. Not only that, it was also accompanied by a patrolling police car that joined the limousine at the entrance to the town. The convoy was completed by an old hatchback Rover.

Naturally, such a procession attracted the attention of all the neighbours. People looked out of the windows and imagined if not the arrival of the queen, then at least a prince. And they were not far from the truth.

A valet came out of the passenger seat and opened the door for the young gentleman.

Two men left the interior of the Rover. The driver, an obese man in a black overcoat over a classic suit and a wide-brimmed hat. And the passenger - a skinny, gaunt older woman with a tuft of grey hair and a wrinkled face, wearing a red down jacket.

The older woman and the full man approached the boy. They were joined by a constable in a dark police uniform with a baton on his belt.

The obese man introduced himself to the young boy:

- 'Lord Grosvenor, I am pleased to see you. My name is Michael. Michael Conor from the charity. And this is Madame Taylor from the Children's Trust.

- Pleased to meet you, sir, ma'am," Richard nodded his head politely.

- Oh, and what a pleasure, Lord Grosvenor," old lady Taylor said with a shudder.

The constable stood with an impenetrable face, but in his heart he was trembling at having to be in the company of such a big shot as the Duke's son.

Richard nodded to Mrs Taylor, pointing with his chin to the front door of number four Tees Street.

- Here you are, madam.

The old lady from the care authorities strode briskly to the door and pressed the doorbell button.

Mr and Mrs Dursle lived at number four Tees Street and were always proud to say that they were, thank God, perfectly normal people. They could not be expected to get into any strange or mysterious situation.

Mr and Mrs Dursle disapproved of all oddities, mysteries and other nonsense.

Mr Dursle was the head of a firm called Grannings, which specialised in the manufacture of drills. He was a full man with a very pudgy moustache and a very short neck.

As for Mrs Dursle, she was a skinny blonde with a neck almost twice as long as her height would suggest. But this disadvantage came in handy, for most of the time Mrs. Dursle watched her neighbours and eavesdropped on their conversations. And with a neck like hers it was very convenient to peep over other people's fences.

Mr and Mrs Dursle had a nine-year-old son called Dudley, and they thought he was the most wonderful child in the world.

They also had a nephew, Harry, the son of Petunia Dursle's sister. They considered the boy as abnormal as his dead parents.

The Dursleys had everything one could wish for. But they had one secret. More than anything, they were afraid that someone would find out about it. The Dursleys couldn't imagine what would happen to them if the truth came out.

When Mr and Mrs Dursle woke up on Saturday to a dull grey morning - nothing, including the snow covered street, boded well for anything strange.

Mr Dursle hummed something to himself as he tied the most hideous of his ties. He was going to go to the shop, buy himself a bottle of whisky, and for once relax after a hard week's work.

Mrs Dursle, who was struggling to get a resisting Dudley, who looked like a fattened piglet, to sit down at the table, smiled happily as she recounted the latest gossip to her husband.

Harry, a small and stubby boy, wearing a Dudley shirt that looked like a sack and wide jeans that were rolled up at the bottom and belted with a long belt that was almost two turns long, ate his breakfast silently and quickly. He tried to eat it all before Dudley threw another tantrum that involved sweeping everything off the table or knocking it over.

Harry was the same age as his cousin. He had round glasses on his face. A lightning bolt shaped scar adorned the boy's forehead.

No one but Harry noticed the procession of cars forming outside the window in front of the house.

At half past nine the doorbell rang unexpectedly for the Dursleys.

Mr Dursle adjusted his tie and went to open the door. As he swung it open sharply, he exclaimed:

- 'We're not buying anything! Go to hell!

On discovering who he had shouted at, Mr Dursle was stunned. It was the constable, and with him a huge crowd of people.

Harry quickly finished his breakfast and ran out into the sitting room. Before him there was a curious Dudley. Petunia, with her ineradicable curiosity was next to her husband even before the children.

- I'm sorry, sir," Mr Dursle said. - I didn't realise that--What was the occasion, uh--

Mr Dursle looked around the crowd with a frightened look.

A small blond boy slipped past the adults. He held himself with the dignity of a lord.

- Lord Richard Grosvenor," he introduced himself in a dry voice full of strength and authority. Richie had to learn to use that tone when negotiating with business partners to be taken seriously. - Heir to the Duke of Westminster and the Grosvenor Group. Owner of Grosvenor Junior. Godson of Prince Charles. And just so you understand the seriousness of it, the Queen herself has asked me to call her Grandma Lisa.

After these words, Vernon and Petunia Dursle were as if struck by thunder. A child no older than their son was standing in front of them, but they perceived him as a lord. This was aided by the presence of a constable and a prim-looking butler beside the boy.Mr and Mrs Dursle had not expected such an influential person to come to Little Winging.

- Sir... You don't know how pleased I am with your visit," said Mr Dursle.

Harry regarded the young lord curiously. He thought:

"I wish I could do that! I wish Uncle Vernon would speak to me with the same respect. And yet this boy is no older than I am."

Richard said in a haughty tone:

- Mr Dursle, I don't suppose you will be so pleased when you learn the purpose of our visit.

- Yes, yes, sir... Lord? What have we done to deserve... Erm... That the lordship Lord has visited our such an ordinary family?

Vernon was quite excited.

- 'I've decided to do some charity work,' Richard said dryly. - Helping orphans. And I've come to see Harry Potter.

- The boy! - Vernon shouted at the top of his lungs. - Get over here!

"Me? - Harry thought in amazement. - There's no way I'm being visited by an entire Lord!"

Harry squeezed past Dudley, who elbowed him in the side and moaned in a whiny voice:

- 'Mum, why did the Lord come to see that creep?

- Dudley, shut up!" Petunia hissed through tight lips.

Mrs Dursle turned pale, and for the first time in her life realised that her little boy was not as good as she thought him. For now, in front of the lord and constable, the little boy could set her and her husband up for a prison sentence. She grasped Dudley's shoulder firmly, and with her other palm gagged him.

Dudley kicked his mother in the shin with his foot, to which he was unexpectedly slapped. He was so amazed at being hit that he fell into a stupor.

At this moment Richard was looking at the orphan boy in amazement. His gaze lingered on the lightning bolt scar and the bicycle glasses.

- Ha! Just like in that holo-film! - Richie blurted out. - Wait a minute... FUCK!!!