"Sean, what time is your carriage?" Fleur asked, her voice soft in the relative quiet of the Beauxbatons Great Hall.
Sean finished the last of his milk and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "In about an hour."
A flicker of reluctance crossed Fleur's face, a subtle shadow she quickly chased away with a bright smile. "When you return to Britain, you must remember to write. You have my address."
"You as well," Sean replied with a nod. "I'll expect regular updates on your studies."
"Of course," she said. "And the books? The compensation? Have you had a chance to look at them?"
"I have," he admitted. "And now I understand why Beauxbatons was willing to part with them. The content is profoundly obscure. Without a true master's level of understanding in alchemy, it's nearly impossible to decipher. I tried for three days before admitting defeat. It's still too early for me."
"Perhaps," Fleur mused, "but at least you have them. At least within Europe, no school can rival Beauxbatons in alchemy. This is the alma mater of Nicolas Flamel, after all."
The hour passed in a blur of quiet conversation. Soon, Aldrich and Jensen arrived, their luggage—or lack thereof, thanks to their enchanted bags—ready for departure. Aldrich had already arranged for a Bulstrode house-elf to transport most of Sean's school things back home from Platform 9¾, making their own preparations remarkably simple.
"Young Master," Aldrich said gently. "It is time."
Sean put down his teacup and looked at Fleur, a hint of genuine apology in his eyes. "I have to go."
"I know," she said, her smile unwavering. "Have a safe journey."
"Goodbye, Fleur."
"Goodbye, Sean. Remember to write."
"I won't forget."
He waved one last time from the carriage door, then stepped inside. The door closed, and with a gentle lurch, the grand blue carriage lifted into the air, heading toward the French Ministry of Magic and the Portkey that would take him home.
The world dissolved into a sickening, navel-tugging spin before snapping back into focus with a dull thud. They had arrived in a quiet receiving room near the Portkey Office in the British Ministry of Magic. The tattered woollen glove that had served as their Portkey fell limply to the floor.
"One-thirty-three, arrival from the French Ministry," a crisp, familiar English voice announced.
Sean reached up, pinching the base of his right ear and then his throat. He felt a strange, tingling itch, followed by a cough that dislodged the two small Translation Beans. Aldrich caught them deftly before they could hit the floor.
"I will keep these safe for you, Young Master, for when you next have need of them."
"Thank you, Aldrich. Shall we head home directly?"
"Of course." Aldrich paused. "Jensen will be departing from here. He will resume his duties at your side once school begins. I will be serving you during the holidays and handling matters as your family's butler."
"That's fine," Sean said, a practical concern surfacing. "But my home... there may not be a place for you to sleep. When I get back, I'll need to speak with my parents and arrange something."
A small, knowing smile touched Aldrich's lips. "Young Master, perhaps you are unaware. Your parents have already moved. As a reward for your paper being published in The Golden Cauldron, the family has procured a new residence for you. There are rooms enough for your family and for a staff of two or three besides."
Sean absorbed this news in silence. The Bulstrode family's influence, it seemed, was as pervasive in the Muggle world as it was in the magical one. He now understood his uncle Borell's rabid desperation to eliminate him. With control of a fortune and power base this vast, what was the murder of one boy?
As for the "gifts" from the family, Sean had long ago settled on a cold, pragmatic policy: no initiative, no refusal, no responsibility. He would not ask for their favours. He would not refuse them when offered. And he would accept no obligation in return. The gifts of the Bulstrodes always came with strings, but he would not be their puppet.
After Jensen departed, Aldrich led Sean not to their old neighbourhood, but to a quiet London street called Golden Tulip. It was a place of neat, detached houses and manicured lawns, a pocket of comfortable, upper-middle-class prosperity that felt a world away from the gritty reality he knew.
They stopped before a handsome, three-story house. Sean followed Aldrich up the short path and knocked gently on the polished front door.
"Coming! Who is it?" a familiar voice called from within.
A genuine smile, unguarded and warm, spread across Sean's face. He couldn't wait for the door to open. "Mom," he called out. "It's me. I'm back."
He heard the sound of hurried footsteps, followed by a gasp of pure, unadulterated joy. "Oh, my heavens! Sean! You're finally back!"
The door flew open. His mother, Martha, stood there, her eyes wide as if she didn't quite recognize the tall young man who had once been her little boy. The moment of disbelief passed, and she pulled him into a fierce, desperate hug, holding him as if she were afraid he might vanish.
"Mom," he said, his voice muffled by her shoulder, "hasn't Dad gotten off work yet?"
"No, but he'll be home soon... Oh, come in, come in quickly! I've made all your favorites, we can have a proper feast tonight."
As she was about to pull him inside, her eyes fell on the impeccably dressed man standing behind her son. She paused, her smile faltering slightly. "Sean, this is...?"
"Mom, this is Aldrich," Sean explained. "He's my personal butler, arranged by Grandfather. He'll be staying with us from now on. Don't worry," he added, seeing the look of concern on her face, "the family is responsible for his salary and everything. We don't need to contribute a thing."
Martha's relief was visible. She didn't fully understand the concept of a personal butler, but she understood her son was home, and this man was part of his new, strange life. With a warm, welcoming smile, she invited Aldrich into their new home.
(End of Chapter)
***
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