Aristocrat (HP/SI)

10 reviews = bonus chapter

50 comments = bonus chapter

200 gems = bonus chapter

Full story at:

patreon.com/FanFictionPremium

***

Courier work is not difficult in principle, especially if you only have to work inside an office building. Carry papers and small parcels to the recipients from the reception desk, pick up letters from the staff and take them to the office.

Ritchie was assigned a place on the third floor near the kitchen: a small cubbyhole with a coffee machine, electric kettle, fridge and microwave. Each of the four floors had such a small kitchen. Office staff stored food brought from home in the fridge and came there to make tea or coffee. The main influx of people was at lunchtime, when people went to heat up their food. But by this time, Ritchie's working day was over.

There was a clerk's office nearby, run by a young-looking slim girl with brown hair, grey eyes and a thin face. Her name was Helen, and she wore brightly coloured dresses and looked at most twenty-five years old in her thirties.

Richie's workstation was a chair at the end of Helen's desk. The boy was allocated a radio phone - black, solid, with a retractable aerial.

The phone rang. Richie reached out, picked up the receiver and answered it:

- Courier here.

- Hee-hee! - A woman's giggle came from the speaker. - Ahem... Mr Courier, a parcel for the contract department has arrived. The courier is waiting on the ground floor.

- I understand, Miss Mayer," Richard replied in a calm tone. - I'll be right down.

Helen hid a smile and looked at the important-looking boy, who rose from his chair with dignity, adjusted his jacket and walked towards the lift.Soon Richie reached the turnstile in front of the reception desk on the ground floor. The security guard immediately opened the passage through the turnstile.

The courier who brought the parcel turned out to be a young man in his early twenties. Skinny as a pole, dressed in a dark blue tracksuit. He had bright red hair. A swamp-coloured canvas postman's bag hung from his belt.

- Did you bring a parcel for the contract department? - Richard asked.

- What?!

The red-haired courier stared at the boy with big green eyes in surprise.

- Boy, who are you? - He asked.

Richie defiantly corrected the nametag on his chest that read:

Richard

Courier

"Grosvenor Group."

The red-haired boy's eyes widened even more. He said in surprise, almost exclaiming:

- No way! I went through hell to get a job as a courier for a prestigious company. How's that? Boy, how old are you and how did you get a job here?

Richie, stretching his words in a mannerly manner, answered the young man:

- I'm eight, and I got a job here through a favour.

The secretary, watching the new courier, who had become the subject of an office-wide gossip, sniggered. The corners of her lips turned upwards. The girl knew perfectly well whose relative Richard was. And if you put it that way, the kid had really got the job by blight. But if one knew his surname, it would become clear that Richie did not need this job.

The guard sat stone-faced, not paying attention to anything. It seemed that if Richie stood on his hands and started to move his ears, he would not pay attention, only obligingly opened the turnstile.

Grosvenor Group employees in the smoking room or over a cup of coffee made different theories as to why they had such a peculiar courier. In the first place was the theory that Richie was guilty of something, and he was forced to work as punishment. The second most popular version - the father decided to teach the child to work, so that the boy grew up a worthy member of society, and not turned into another irresponsible and immoral major, who loses parental money. There were other, less popular versions, for example, the most interesting of them said that the Duke of Westminster decided in this way to promote himself, say, look, my son is working.

- Erm... - the red-haired courier came to his senses. - I was told to hand the parcel personally to the head of the contract department.

- It doesn't matter what they told you," Richard replied. - We have our own rules at the firm. How do you envisage it? You will not be allowed inside the office. And to chase a respected man, who runs an entire department, just to take a parcel from the courier - it's stupid. That's what I'm for. Young man, if you like, I can take your paper to Mr Summers for him to sign. Or I can sign it myself.

- Uh," said the red-haired messenger. - I'll have to call the office and check.

- No problem! - smirked Richie. - There's a phone on the wall behind you. Ring it up.

Carrot-top turned round, went to the phone and started calling somewhere. After a while he came back and handed the boy a parcel. Then he slipped him a clipboard with a sheet attached.

- Sign here," he said.

Ritchie signed his signature, then deftly intercepted the small parcel, nodded to the guard, who immediately opened the turnstile, and left for the lift.

At this time, the red-haired courier hovered like an operating system installed on a faulty hard drive. Without taking his eyes off the signature, he muttered angrily:

- What a little arsehole! Fucking humourist! Where did he come from?

The thing was, there was a sprawling signature on the line opposite the inscription "Delivery to Grosvenor Group, 70 Grosvenor Street":

Grosvenor

- Hey!" shouted the red-haired delivery man.

But Richie was already in the lift. Its flaps closed and took the boy away.

The red-haired young man, seething with rage, went to the reception desk and put his clipboard on it. Poking his finger into the signature line, he exclaimed indignantly:

- What is this?! No, do you see what your employee has done? I'll be fined for such jokes.

- I don't see anything wrong," replied Miss Mayer nonchalantly.

- What about the signature?! Did you see the bloody signature? - said the courier with the same indignation.

- It's a normal signature," the secretary shrugged nonchalantly.

- Normal?! - The redhead gasped with indignation. - Your boy wrote here the name of the owner of the company!

- That's right," the secretary looked mockingly at the courier. - What else was he supposed to sign? He's Grosvenor.

- What?!

The red-haired courier's eyes became the size of peaches. He froze like a statue from a nearby wax museum.

The secretary had to make a great effort not to laugh at the sight of the extremely astonished kid. Even the guard's corners of his lips quivered, pulling upwards.

- Erm... - the redhead scratched the top of his head. - Okay...

The courier picked up his clipboard, turned around, and headed for the exit. He muttered quietly to himself:

- Crazy company... It's run by an underage starlet, after whom not only the company, but also the street is named. Not only that, but he's also a part-time courier in his company... There's no such thing! But... a secretary wouldn't lie, would she?

***

Despite his work, Ritchie's gymnastics, fencing practice, and economics tutoring sessions were still going strong. Only now the coach came to the boy's home in the capital, and for fencing he had to go to another section, which is located in London. There he would arrive an hour after lunch.

At three o'clock in the afternoon Richie had free time for the first time since he got there, which he was immensely happy about. Only the boy did not know how to use this time.

Ordinary children in Richard's place would devote their free time to games and socialising with their peers. But this kind of pastime was not interesting to Richard.

On the first day, Richie decided to see the cultural sights of London "of the past".

Junior Grosvenor, accompanied by his valet, visited the wax museum.

The next day was marked by having to start work full time, not as yesterday, from nine in the morning.

At exactly eight o'clock in the morning, when Richard went up to the third floor, Helen was already at her desk. She was wearing a blue dress with white lilies today. On the desk of the head of the office were stacks of letters.

- Good morning, Mrs Phillips," said the young courier, dressed in a new black three-piece suit. - That's a lovely dress. It harmonises perfectly with your eyes.

Helen, smiling softly, looked at Richard. The little boy with blond, tousled hair, dressed like an adult and holding himself like a young lord, made her smile.

- Hello, Richie. Thank you. At least someone in this office can pay a girl a compliment. Are you ready for a day's work?

- As a scout, I'm always ready, ma'am.

- Well, Richie," the girl pouted playfully. - We agreed that you should call me Helen. I'm not that old.

- I'm sorry, Helen, but I was taught not to be familiar. Though I'm willing to make concessions for such a lovely lady. What are we having today?

The smile never left Helen Phillips' lips. How can you take such a cute little thing seriously! She said in a soft tone:

- Richie, we need to get the letters and documents to the addressees. I've organised everything into departments and labelled each pile with a sticker indicating the floor and office. Get a delivery trolley from the storeroom, because there's too much paper for you to carry.

- Yes, ma'am!

Ritchie clicked his heels together and then went to the storeroom to get the trolley, which was similar to the one used by waiters to deliver meals to rooms: steel, on four wheels, with two shelves and a convenient handle for pushing, compact in size. Soon the boy, with the active help of his boss, loaded stacks of papers into it and began to wheel them around the office. At the same time he was getting acquainted with the content of the documents.

So slowly Richard reached the first floor. This was the rental department, the largest, occupying half of the floor.

The appearance of a courier with a trolley brought the work to a halt. The office plankton watched with smiles on their lips as the serious young heir who would inherit the company in the future worked.

Richie picked up a stack of papers and exclaimed loudly:

- Mr Smith. Answer me. Wave your hand so I can see you.

A man's muffled laughter, reminiscent of a grunt, sounded in the distance. After which someone in the distance commented in a male baritone:

- Smith, are you deaf? Your name.

- Hear, hear...

A young man of about twenty-seven, wearing a dark business suit, appeared from behind the third grey office partition, counting from Richard's location. His brown hair was slicked back to the side. Brown eyes scrutinised the young courier.

- I'm Smith," said the boy.

- All right, mister, some invoices for you," Richard glanced at the papers. - Come and get them. We don't want to stress the young body.

Smith grinned and walked towards the boy. He took the papers and began to look through them.

Richie, taking advantage of the moment, asked:

- Mr Smith, I notice you work with hotels. How many hotels do we have?

- I have a dozen hotels on my books," Smith replied. - Or do you mean something else?

- I just wanted to know how many hotels the Grosvenor Group has on its books," he said.

- Well..." Smith said thoughtfully. - More than fifty.

So, studying documents and talking to various employees, Ritchie gradually got into the structure and scope of the company. Every hour of every day he learnt something new, and the puzzle gradually formed into a coherent picture.

Richie learnt about the properties owned by Grosvenor Group, the turnover and profits of the company.

So he found out that the firm let only a small part of the profits to pay dividends. The main share of net income went to the purchase of land and construction of new properties: shopping centres, office and residential buildings, hotels. The number of employees worldwide is approaching the mark of ten thousand people.

The firm has large divisions. The head office, to which all the money and documents flow, is already known, it is in this office that Richard works. But, in addition, in London there are two more divisions of the firm: the first - "Grosvenor UK and Ireland"; the second - "Grosvenor Fund Management". Three more major subsidiaries are located in different parts of the world: Grosvenor America, Grosvenor Europe and Grosvenor Asia Pacific.

There is a huge amount of money being made in the company. The hundred million pounds a year that Gerald, his daughters, his ex-wife and, to a small extent, Richard receive are cents on the scale of the sums invested in the business.

Richie realised that even if he were to get his hands on ten million pounds and invest it extremely profitably in venture capital securities, even then he would not catch up with his father in terms of fortune. It's not the same amount. If he had half a billion.....

On the other hand, if you think about it, with that kind of money, it wouldn't make much sense to work hard. You could invest in successful companies and live off the dividends. And no one would give such a huge amount of money. You should be happy with what you've bargained for.

The month flew by. It seemed that Richie just got into a rhythm: exercise, breakfast, work, lunch, fencing or economics classes, walks around the tourist places of London with visits to museums - and suddenly everything changed. Business sharks took up the task of educating the young man, bringing him up to speed with the company and teaching him how to do business.

Whereas before Richard had only briefly looked into the managers' offices on the fourth floor, now he only crawled out of there close to lunchtime.

Two more months flew by like that, spring had flown by, and then it was March, and now it was June.

Richie was glad that another marathon was finally over. The teachers, who spent their working hours on the child, did not spare the boy. They saw that he grasped everything on the fly, so they did not discount his age and prepared him as if he were their successor. A week with one manager, a week with another. So Richie worked in all the important departments: financial, legal, contractual, leasing, marketing, logistics, construction, management.

Not to say that in the blink of an eye he turned into a financial guru, but he learnt a lot and began to understand business, and this is the main thing. After all, dry academic knowledge of economics is nothing. Every year, thousands of students with economics degrees graduate from colleges. Where are they? What do they do? Does everyone open their own business and make millions? Of course not! Mostly these people go to work as clerks in banks or turn into office plankton. And if they are unlucky, they don't work in their speciality at all.

The same professor who's been studying with Richard. He has an excellent understanding of economics, but he doesn't do business himself. At most, he invests his spare money in securities.

Ritchey came back from fencing practice. Today was his last day at the Grosvenor Group office. The boy didn't even go out as usual, he went straight home and waited impatiently for his father to come home. He was already mentally rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the promised money. He had already planned roughly how he would use it.

Amidst the emotional excitement that haunted him all day, Richard did not pay attention to the aching pain in his tooth. But at home, during dinner, food got into the tooth, and the boy howled with terrible pain.

John came running at once. He jumped up to Richie and asked fearfully:

- What's wrong? Where does it hurt?

- My tooth! - Tears spurted from Richie's eyes and he grabbed his right cheek with his leading hand. - My tooth hurts.

- "Oh!" the valet sighed. It was hard to interpret whether he was glad that it was not a serious injury or whether he was worried that the child was unwell. - Well, it's a long way to Chester to see our dentist," he began to reason aloud. - Hmm... So we'll go to the nearest private clinic. A good one.

John armed himself with a huge yellow phone book and began flipping through it quickly. Finding a page with the phone numbers of dental clinics, he looked for the nearest one. Finding the right hospital, the valet called the number and made an appointment.

Soon Richie, in John's company, took a taxi to the dental clinic. Unfortunately, Gerald had been away on business in the Bentley since the morning, so they had to use what they had on hand. But Richie didn't care what he drove, for him all the transport around him was dopotopic. He just wanted to get to the dentist and get rid of the pain, he didn't care about anything else.

John drove him to a small private dental clinic. There was a modestly sized waiting room with a few chairs for visitors and a table. There were only two dental offices in the clinic.

After Dr Granger fixed the boy's tooth, Richard went into the waiting room. John went into the doctor's office to pay and discuss the nuances of further treatment like rinsing. Since the valet was a very persnickety man, the conversation promised to last a long time.

Richie was incredibly happy to be rid of his toothache. It made him feel euphoric.

In the waiting room, the boy found a girl sitting at a table, writing something in a notebook.

The girl looked to be about ten years old and had brown eyes and unruly thick brown hair. Her front teeth were a little larger than usual. She was wearing a dark blue school uniform: skirt, jacket, white blouse.

When she saw Richard, the girl pulled away from her notebook and looked at the boy with a curious gaze.

- Hi," she said. - Are you a client of Daddy's?

- 'If Daddy is Dr Granger, then yes. I'm Richie.

- I'm Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you.

- Nice to meet you, too," Richie gave Hermione a white-toothed smile that shone with the absence of one tooth. - Until the anaesthesia wears off, I'm the happiest person in the world. By the way, that's a great hairstyle, it suits you.

- Don't talk rubbish! - Hermione puffed up her cheeks in offence. - I forgot to do my hair today.

- Really?" Richard raised his eyebrows in surprise. - I thought you were a fashionista. At the office where I used to work as a courier, all the fashionistas have their hair done like that.

- You work?! - Hermione had a look of amazement on her face. She stopped being offended, realising that Richie wasn't joking about her.

- Not anymore. I had a part-time job a couple of months ago.

- That's great! But how did you work? You're so small.

- Hermione, it only seems that way," Richie grinned and continued:- 'Actually, my dad made me work part-time in his office. It's worth noting, though, that the carrot was a big one. Any donkey would have worked his arse off for that.

- What about school? Or did you work after school?

- I finished junior high.

- You don't look like you're twelve," Hermione's face and voice showed scepticism. - You look more like my age.

- I never said my age. I'll be nine this summer.

- No way! - Hermione exclaimed incredulously. - You're lying to me!

- I didn't even think so. I passed my external exams and I've been in fifth grade for the last six months. But I got bored, so I studied hard and took exams for the whole junior school. My dad and teachers think I'm a genius, but I don't think so.

- A genius..." Hermione said frustrated. - And I have to be in the fourth grade, even though I'll be ten years old in September. And why wasn't I born three weeks earlier? It's not fair that some people graduate early and others have to study longer!

- Life isn't fair," Richie shrugged and decided to change the subject. Nodding at his notebook, he asked:- What are you writing?

- I'm...

Hermione's cheeks turned pink with embarrassment and she covered the notebook with her hands.

- Don't be shy. If it's a love poem, I'll understand.

- No, they're not love poems! - Hermione exclaimed. - It's different...

- Mm-mm... And you know how to pique a man's interest.

- Pfft! - Hermione grinned. - A man! - she said sarcastically. - You're a boy and you'll be one for a long time to come.

- That depends on how you look at it. For some people, a few years is a long time. For me, I'd like to be a child for as long as possible. Injuries heal almost instantly, teeth grow back a second time, you don't have to work... Although the latter is not true for everyone. Anyway, being a boy is better than being an adult.

Hermione hovered for a moment. She sat for a few seconds with an absent gaze. Then she woke up and said:

- You're mad!

- No, I'm a boy with the mind of an adult. That's not crazy. And in general, admit that geniuses and just smart people to the average person often seem abnormal. For example, instead of playing, a smart girl will sit with a notebook and write something in it.

- Um..." Hermione was confused. - You won't laugh?

- I can't promise. Hermione, if you tell me something funny, I won't hold back my laughter. But I promise that if it's serious stuff, I'll try not to laugh.

- I-" Hermione thought for a moment, then her face took on a determined look. - I was writing a letter to the Queen!

- Mm-hm..." Richard stretched out meaningfully. - Why?

- I want to go to the children's annual meeting with the Queen. I've been writing a letter to the Queen for that, but I don't know what to write.

- Hmm... Hermione, are you aware that the Queen receives thousands of letters every year from children who want to go on a tour of Windsor Castle and have tea with her? Naturally, she doesn't read the letters herself, there's a whole clerical department for that. Only twenty or thirty of all the children in Britain are selected.

- I know," the girl looked upset. - But what if I had been lucky? I long to see Windsor Castle ...

- Yes, it's beautiful. Gothic style, a lot of gilding, shining armour...

Hermione's eyes rounded, she drew her chest full of air and said indignantly:

- You were there! You were there!

- Yes, I was. Do you want to go there so badly?

- Of course! It's every British schoolboy's dream.

- Dreams come true. I'll help you.

- Joker! - Hermione snorted, clearly not believing Richie's words.

Meanwhile, Richard reached into the valise that John had left on the chair in the waiting room. From there he pulled out a monster-looking portable phone, extended the antenna and dialled a number from memory.

- Hello, Uncle Charlie, good afternoon.

Hermione listened to the boy's conversation on the expensive phone. She had seen similar devices in a shop once and was well aware of their insane cost. Her parents ran a private clinic, where they worked as dentists, so they were well-to-do people. They can't afford to buy a portable phone. And some boy, who is younger than her, easily takes out such a device and habitually uses it. Such a sight made Hermione dumbfounded.

Female curiosity made the girl's ears perk up. A quiet reply came to her ears from the telephone receiver in a male voice:

- Hi, Richie. What's up, bully?

- I'm not a bully!

- Well, well, well. Who ran away from the reception with Bill to play with toys?

- I had to. Uncle Charlie, you don't know anything about toys. Bill's got such a fancy railway. Any grown-up would want to play with one of those.

There was laughter from the telephone receiver.

- Uncle Charlie, I'm calling on business.

- Yes, yes, I'm listening.

- I've got a friend who wants to go to the Queen's annual tea party with the kids. She's nine, so she's age-appropriate.

- Richie, it's no problem. Although I don't do it, I'll tell the tour organiser. What's the girl's name?

- Hermione. Hermione Granger.

- Mm-hmm, got it. I need her address and phone number.

Richard covered the phone's microphone with his hand and turned to Hermione:

- 'What's your address and phone number?

Hermione couldn't answer. She was so dumbfounded by the ease with which Richie had negotiated 'tea with the Queen' that her mind refused to believe it. She thought it was a prank.

- Ow! Hermione, Richie wants you to come in for a session. Give me your address and phone number.

The girl straightened her back, frowned, pressed her lips together and said sharply in a disgruntled tone:

- Richie, this is a stupid joke!

- What joke? - Richard rounded his eyes. - I called Uncle Charlie for you! And you're unable to appreciate the seriousness of what's going on....

Hermione started to get angry, which was reflected on her pretty face. Richie realised that the girl didn't believe him, so he sighed heavily, shook his head and said:

- Okay, let me explain for the sake of understanding. Uncle Charlie is Prince Charles to you, and he is now waiting for your answer! Now did it dawn on you that this wasn't a prank?

Hermione's eyebrows moved to the bridge of her nose. Her face showed the struggle between wanting to believe the boy and distrusting him. In the end, like any little girl, she believed in the miracle. But because of this, she experienced a shock. The girl's fair skin turned pale.

"How can this be? If this boy calls Prince Charles uncle and uses an expensive phone, who is he? Is he really a prince? Oh! And I was so rude to him."

- Hermione! - called out Richie to the girl, who was immersed in her own thoughts.

- Oh, yes... The address! - Hermione perked up. - Write it down...