"I'm starting to understand," Richard said, all skepticism leaving him. "So it turns out the goblins believe they control the wizarding economy. By receiving high profits, they themselves keep their more aggressive kin in check. At the same time, they can't come out of the shadows. First, the wizards wouldn't allow it, since that would violate the Statute of Secrecy. Second, the goblins must clearly understand that they're influential financiers only among magi—in the ordinary world, they're nobodies with no standing at all. What's more, there are far more people now than there were in the Middle Ages. Weapons and methods of killing have developed far beyond anything back then. And people, xenophobic as ever, haven't changed. So, at best, the goblins would end up as guinea pigs in research labs; at worst—genocide. That's why they keep their heads down. Which means that, with a high degree of probability, wizards trust the goblin bank."
Gerald applauded.
"Bravo! Bravo, Richie! An excellent demonstration of analytical thinking."
The week flew by. Between studying and fencing practice, Richie barely noticed Saturday arrive.
Because of the additional magic lessons, the boy had to revise his academic schedule and cut his rapier training from six sessions a week down to five.
Portkey travel turned out to be quite convenient. Richard slipped the enchanted bracelet onto his wrist and said:
"Portus."
At once, the boy felt a jolt, as if someone had shoved him. The scenery changed abruptly. One moment he was standing in his bedroom, dressed in an elegant three-piece suit; the next, he found himself in a completely unfamiliar place.
Before Richard rose an old two-story house designed in the classical style. Numerous columns and arches on the ground floor supported an open terrace-balcony on the second floor, with arched windows. The walls were built of white stone. The house itself wasn't large, but calling it small would be a stretch: roughly twenty meters long and about twelve wide.
Despite the cold season, there wasn't a single snowflake in sight. The temperature felt like spring, and Richard found himself uncomfortably warm in the coat he'd thrown on just in case. Instead of snowdrifts, the visitor saw neatly trimmed green lawns and shrubs shaped like dragons, manticores, and other fantastical creatures. Strangely enough, the shrubs were green as well.
Richard climbed the marble steps and stepped beneath an arched vault. His way was blocked by massive double doors, upon which a knocker hung.
When the knocker struck the bronze plate, the doors swung open on their own. Such a trick couldn't surprise a transmigrant like him—after all, in his former world, electronics controlled nearly everything, and automatic doors and voice-controlled household systems were commonplace.
Inside, the house didn't feel particularly magical. It gave the impression of a museum. Everything breathed antiquity. Candles burned in heavy bronze wall sconces, yet there was no wax dripping beneath them. It was as if they had been lit only moments ago, not having had time to burn down at all.
"Come this way, my boy," a loud old woman's voice called from deep within the house.
Following the voice, Richie entered a spacious drawing room. The furniture dated from the eighteenth or nineteenth century, with intricate carved woodwork, yet it looked as though it had just left a craftsman's workshop. The upholstery was new, dark green; the lacquer gleamed, freshly polished. Richard had something to compare it to—his own estate was filled with antique furniture, and none of it looked quite this pristine.
The old woman sat in an antique armchair with slender armrests near a fireplace where a fire burned. She wore a dark burgundy dress in the fashion of the eighteenth century: a full skirt, puffed short sleeves, high-necked, and reaching all the way to her heels.
"Good morning, Tutor," Richard bowed politely. "A charming dress—it suits you very well."
"Oh, you flatterer!"
The old woman's lips spread into a semblance of a smile, revealing a neat row of snow-white teeth. Richard immediately thought that wizards clearly didn't suffer from dental problems. Either they used excellent prosthetics, or they possessed some secret that allowed them to keep all their teeth intact well past the age of two hundred. Judging by appearances, the latter seemed more likely.
"Young people today aren't what they used to be," the old woman grumbled. "But you can tell at once when a boy is well brought up. Would you like some tea, Richard?"
"Thank you, ma'am, but I've just finished breakfast."
"Well then, very good. Have a seat."
Richard took the indicated chair opposite her. Madam Marchbanks asked:
"What do you know about magic?"
"Nothing, ma'am."
"Just as I thought!" Madam Marchbanks declared. "Remember this, boy: magic is everywhere, and with it, anything can be done. If someone tells you that something can't be achieved through magic, they are either deeply mistaken or deliberately misleading you—and most likely haven't even tried to look for other ways, because magic is multifaceted as well. Do you know about Harry Potter?"
Richard chose not to tell the whole truth and instead gave the official version:
"Ma'am, the name is familiar to me. I'm involved in charitable aid for orphaned children, and among those under my care there's a boy named Harry Potter. He has a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead and poor eyesight, which is why he has to wear glasses."
"Oh! The poor thing!" exclaimed Madam Marchbanks without any affectation. "I'd forgotten that, like a Muggle-born, you know nothing. That boy is certainly the Harry Potter. How curious—where might you have seen him?"
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
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