"So your company supplies Skrepyshes not only across Britain, but has also entered the Japanese and American markets?"
"Precisely," Richard replied with an approving nod.
"And what about hobbies?"
"I enjoy magic tricks."
A large gold coin appeared on Richie's palm. He tossed it into the air—and it vanished.
The journalist followed the performance with genuine delight.
"Do you see the coin, miss?"
"No," Fiona said with a smile, shaking her head.
"But it's there!"
With those words, Richie produced the coin from behind the journalist's ear.
Miss Bruce burst into applause. A wide smile lit up her face.
"Magnificent! Sleight of hand?" she asked.
"No… street magic!" Richard replied with a grin.
The journalist responded with clear, ringing laughter. When she finally caught her breath, she asked,
"Richie, what games do you like to play?"
"Fiona, unfortunately, I don't really have time for games. My schedule is so packed that it's difficult to find even a moment for hobbies. And now, when I finally have some free time, I decided to spend it helping those in need rather than on pointless games."
"By the way, Richie, why did you decide to help orphans?" Miss Bruce asked.
"When I was little, my father and I were left alone," Richard began, speaking with practiced sincerity, careful not to lie outright while still presenting the facts in the most favorable light. "I grew up in a well-off family, but not a complete one. I lacked a mother's love—something my father, no matter how hard he tried, could never fully replace. So 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 shot up in surprise.
"So, Richie, you earned your first money and instead of spending it on toys and sweets, you donate it to charity?"
"I kept some for sweets," he admitted lightly, "but overall, yes. Charity is a worthy pursuit. I'm a Grosvenor, after all—which means I must set an example for others!"
The dull, gray morning was occasionally broken by snowflakes drifting down from the sky. A luxury-class automobile entered the town of Little Whinging and turned onto Privet Drive. It was an ordinary suburban street, home to respectable middle-class families. Rows of nearly identical two-story yellow-brick houses stood neatly aligned, each with three bedrooms, an attached garage, and a paved driveway in front.
Privet Drive had never before witnessed the passage of an expensive Bentley—especially not one escorted by a patrol police car that joined the limousine at the town's entrance. Bringing up the rear of the procession was an aging Rover hatchback.
Naturally, such a spectacle drew the attention of every neighbor. People peered out of their windows, imagining that if it wasn't the Queen herself arriving, then at the very least a prince. And they were not far from the truth.
A valet fluttered out from the passenger seat and attentively opened the door for the young master.
Two people stepped out of the Rover. The driver was a portly man in a black overcoat worn over a classic suit, topped with a wide-brimmed hat. The passenger was a thin, wiry elderly woman with her gray hair pulled into a bun, a deeply lined face, and a red puffer jacket.
The elderly woman and the heavyset man approached the boy. A constable in a dark police uniform, a baton hanging from his belt, joined them.
The stout man introduced himself to the young lord.
"Lord Grosvenor, I'm pleased to meet you. My name is Michael—Michael Connor, from the charitable foundation. And this is Madam Taylor from Child Protective Services."
"Pleased to meet you, sir… ma'am," Richard replied politely, inclining his head to each of them.
"Oh, and how pleased I am, Lord Grosvenor," Madam Taylor uttered with trembling emotion.
The constable stood with an impassive expression, though inside he quivered at having to be in the presence of such an important figure as the son of a duke.
Richard nodded to Mrs. Taylor and gestured with his chin toward the front door of number four, Privet Drive.
"After you, madam."
The elderly woman from Child Services briskly trotted up to the door and pressed the doorbell.
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley lived at number four, Privet Drive, and were proud to say that they were, thank you very much, perfectly normal people. One would least expect them to find themselves involved in anything strange or mysterious.
The Dursleys strongly disapproved of anything odd, puzzling, or otherwise nonsensical.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which manufactured drills. He was a large man with an impressive mustache and a very short neck.
As for Mrs. Dursley, she was a thin blonde woman whose neck was nearly twice as long as it should have been for her height. This particular feature, however, suited her quite well, as Mrs. Dursley spent most of her time spying on the neighbors and eavesdropping on their conversations. And with a neck like hers, it was remarkably easy to peer over other people's fences.
(End of Chapter)
Hey! Don't forget, your support is very important.
Please donate power stones, write reviews, and leave comments. It will be a huge help!
🎁 Bonus chapter at 50 power stones!