Richard's schedule at the end of February turned out to be excessively packed. There was studying, fencing, and monitoring the securities market, with periodic calls to his broker to issue investment instructions. On top of that, two days a week he had to practice magic until he was utterly exhausted.
Madam Marchbanks only looked like a harmless dandelion sent by God; in reality, she proved to be an inflexible tyrant. At least, that was how it seemed to Richard. After all, he teleported to his mentor early in the morning, brimming with strength and energy, and came back closer to evening, collapsing into the living room like a sack of potatoes. For a long time afterward, he couldn't even move his right arm from sheer fatigue. A wand might be light, but try waving one around all day. After that, it stops feeling light. By evening, the boy felt as if he were swinging a crowbar. And that was despite the fact that he also practiced fencing and was accustomed to wielding a rapier, which was hardly a featherweight either.
Because the witch had thoughtlessly set the portal's exit point in the living room, the elder Grosvenor had to dismiss the servants earlier on weekends. The noble gentleman was forced to make this sacrifice to preserve secrecy. Richard could leave the living room without prying eyes even if the staff were present, but appearing there… who knew who might be in the room at that moment. And so, on Saturdays and Sundays—oh, the horror—both Grosvenors had to go to the kitchen THEMSELVES, take the food prepared by the cook earlier in the day, and even reheat it.
Gerald's maximum experience with independent cooking amounted to barbecuing freshly hunted game during outings. As for the transmigrator, he had grown up surrounded by high technology and had spent his entire life eating inexpensive convenience foods that only needed reheating. In short, for both father and son, warming food on a stove felt like a feat of heroism and endurance. The Grosvenors didn't own a microwave for the simple reason that the cook always served food piping hot, freshly prepared, so there had never been any need for such an appliance in a professional, restaurant-level kitchen.
Soon enough, by Gerald's order, the kitchen did acquire a microwave, and life became noticeably easier for the gentlemen.
Without days off, anyone would struggle. Young Grosvenor understood that he wouldn't be able to keep up such a pace for long without losing his mind. So he revised his schedule with the goal of carving out two days off per week: Friday, to rest before the grueling charms training, and Monday, to recover and regain strength afterward. He reduced his fencing lessons to four times a week, still keeping them on Friday but dropping Monday, since on the first day of the week Richard could barely lift a spoon—forget about holding a rapier.
As a result, his studies under the school curriculum were cut in half. Consequently, the time until he could take his ninth-year exams increased by the same amount. In other words, instead of a couple of months, his studies now promised to drag on for a full four.
The first couple of weeks were especially hard. Gradually, however, his young body adapted to the workload. Another month later, Richard had fully adjusted to the schedule and no longer felt quite so exhausted.
March passed, and April arrived. The snow melted, and the first hints of spring greenery began to appear. On yet another free Monday, young Grosvenor's mood was sky-high. The boy decided it was time to deal seriously with some matters.
Four hours after a phone call to Richard's office, Detective Potter barged in without ceremony, knocking briefly on the door with his knuckles. Dressed in a rumpled gray suit and leaving dirty footprints from his boots on the parquet floor, he crossed the entire office and collapsed heavily into an armchair.
"Hey there, kid!" the detective waved his right hand. "Got a new case?"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter," Richard replied calmly, ignoring the visitor's lack of manners. "Tell me, by any chance, do you have any relatives who've gone missing?"
At those words, the detective straightened and became deadly serious. His gaze turned to steel.
"I'm an orphan, kid. Why?" he asked. "Did you manage to find something?"
"Not exactly, sir. Over the winter, I was involved in charity work and came across a troubled family that has custody of a boy named Harry Potter. The surname, as you understand, is the same as yours, so I thought I'd ask."
"There are plenty of people with the same last name," the detective shrugged, though he remained tightly composed. "There are lots of Potters in Britain. And this boy… who are his parents?"
"His mother's name is Lily—her maiden name was Evans. His father is James Potter. I only managed to learn the names of the boy's grandparents on the Potter side: Fleamont and Euphemia."
The man flinched sharply, as if struck across the face. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his jaw muscles twitched.
"I see those names mean something to you, sir."
"They do…" When the detective spoke, it sounded as though his teeth were grinding. "That was the names of my parents—the ones who sent me to an orphanage when I was eleven years old."
The pieces clicked together in Richard's mind. The age of eleven. The charming habit of pure-blood wizards disposing of children born without magical ability. An orphan detective whose parents bore the same names as Harry Potter's grandparents.
"You're a Squib, Mr. Potter?"
The steely glint in the man's eyes intensified. In a harsh tone, he asked:
"How do you know about wizards?"
"Sir, I learned about them from Uncle Charlie," Richard said with a disarming smile. "The royal family is supposed to be aware of things like a hidden community of people with extraordinary abilities living within their country. It just so happens that I turned out to be a wizard myself—though I only found out recently."