Richard was furious. His nostrils flared wide as he strode out of Diagon Alley in a thoroughly foul mood.
Since no one would allow the young lord to wander about alone, Detective Potter accompanied him.
"So, kid, didn't work out?"
"Mr. Potter," Richard replied coldly, "you were a witness yourself. What's the point of that question?"
"You really need that stick that badly?"
"I do."
"What for?"
"Mr. Potter, if I told you it was to save the world, would you believe me?"
"Maybe… Or maybe not. But, kid, what if I told you I've got a magic waving wand?"
Richard froze in place. Remembering his upbringing, he did his best to maintain his composure, though it took tremendous effort.
"Hmm… And where did you get it, sir?"
"Remember that nice decoration I was wearing?" the detective said, touching his eye. Not long ago, a respectable bruise had adorned it.
"Sir, I have an excellent memory. I remember perfectly."
Detective Potter grinned brazenly.
"Wizards!" he spat with contempt. "They haven't got the faintest idea about hand-to-hand combat. Good old judo helped me take those little magic sticks away from a pack of wizard thugs and give them a proper thrashing. But remember this, kid—a crowd of mice can eat a cat. They got their hits in too. I barely made it out in one piece. So—do you need the stick?"
"I do, Mr. Potter. What would you like for all of them?"
"No, kid," the detective wagged his index finger from side to side. "Don't count on all of them. My nephew needs something to practice with too. I'll give you one. And you know what?"
"I'm listening, sir."
"I don't need anything. You helped my nephew; I'm helping you. That's more than business."
"I understand, sir. In any case, you can count on my gratitude and support."
***
Richie decided to spend the night at the London house. He arrived at 69 Grosvenor Street in excellent spirits. Inside the inner pocket of his jacket rested a magical wand.
The butler opened the door before the boy.
"Master Richie," he said with a bow. "How was your walk?"
"Thank you, John. Everything was wonderful."
As soon as the closed front door cut off the street noise, Richard gave his order:
"John, go to the bank where I have my account, buy a platinum bar, and bring it to me."
"Master Richie, what do you need platinum for—especially in such quantities? If I recall correctly, bars of that metal are sold at over one hundred ounces."
"Even better. John, we're staying in London tonight, so I'll be waiting for your return. Take Steve with you—the cargo isn't exactly cheap."
Receiving no further explanation, the valet went to fetch his coat. His job was not only to look after the young master and his upbringing, but also to fulfill the boy's various whims.
John had access to Richard's account and he could manage it, but the man had never once considered abusing that trust.
A couple of hours later, Richard, smiling broadly, held a heavy platinum bar weighing one hundred sixty-six troy ounces—just over five kilograms. It had consumed most of the money in his account, but the boy felt no regret.
"Master Richie," John asked, raising an eyebrow, "have you decided to invest in precious metals?"
"You could say that, John. Yes… invest."
Richard dragged the square silver-colored brick into his father's study, and once inside, he locked the door behind him.
Immediately, he began casting the duplication charm he had recently mastered with his new wand. On the floor, one bar became two, then three, four, five, and so on, until the young wizard was completely spent.
Sweat poured down Richard's face as though he had been working as a dockhand. Yet the joyful gleam never left the transmigrator's eyes. Seventy-two platinum bars with a total weight of just over three hundred seventy kilograms would leave anyone impressed.
Before long, however, the rainbow mood began to fade. The original idea of selling the platinum bars started sprouting problems.
First, every bar had the exact same serial number, size, and weight—something that simply does not happen in reality, and therefore highly suspicious.
Second, if he were to sell them, legalizing the funds would be difficult. Trouble with the tax authorities was the last thing a future duke needed.
Third, transporting such an enormous load without involving adults would be problematic. And that would inevitably mean Gerald being informed of everything. Richard had no desire whatsoever to receive another beating across his aristocratic backside with a belt.
In any case, for a public figure, earning money this way was far too risky. But he needed money now, so Richie decided to take the risk just once. Just once! After all, it is far easier for him to profit through investments than to grab quick cash while exposing himself both to wizarding law enforcement and to the queen's close scrutiny. One could lose privileges that way—and even become the proverbial black sheep.
Morning is wiser than evening—that was what the ancients used to say. And it's actually true.
Early the next morning, Richard set out for Eaton Hall. As usual, the journey took a long time, giving the boy plenty of opportunity to think. As a result, by the time he arrived home, a plan had formed in his mind. He decided to tell his father everything honestly. Better to be beaten again than to put the Grosvenors at risk.
That evening, after his lessons with the tutors, Richie spent some more time practicing duplication charm on a platinum bar he had brought along.
After dinner, the boy hinted to his father that he had a serious matter to discuss, and soon Richard and Gerald were seated in the drawing room.
"Well then, Richie, what happened?"
"Why do you immediately assume something happened?"
"It's written all over you, son."
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
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