Harry Potter: The Golden Boy

"Wake up, Nico, we're here in England!" Mark's voice rang out cheerfully, accompanied by his signature grin. Nicholas stirred from his sleep, feeling the familiar tug of his body as the plane gently touched down. "You're welcome, my boy," Mark added with a wink, noticing the boy's slow awakening.

Nicholas groaned softly, feeling the sticky residue of dried saliva still clinging to the corner of his mouth, trailing lazily down his chin. Annoyance flared in him—he hated being woken up so abruptly, especially by Mark's playful antics. He awkwardly wiped the drool away with the sleeve of his polo shirt, shooting the older man a withering look.

"Can't you at least wake me up gently?" Nicholas muttered, his voice tinged with irritation as he tried to compose himself.

Mark's hearty laughter echoed through the small cabin as he walked back towards the cockpit. "Ah, but then that wouldn't be me, now would it?" he called over his shoulder, clearly amused by Nicholas's sleepy frustration.

Nicholas scowled, resisting the urge to give Mark the finger—a gesture he knew would have earned him a stern rebuke from his mother. Always respect your elders, her voice echoed in his head. But when it came to Mark, Nicholas couldn't help but feel conflicted. How am I supposed to respect someone who messes with me at every turn? he thought bitterly, tightening his fists in frustration. Still, he managed to stop himself, inhaling deeply to calm the bubbling annoyance.

After a few moments of pulling himself together, he smoothed his rumpled clothes and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. Just as he was starting to feel a bit more like himself, Mark returned, leaning against the doorframe with a casual grin.

"Hungry, kid? I was thinking we could grab lunch before I drop you off at your grandfather's estate," Mark suggested, his tone light. He didn't seem to notice the subtle flicker of sadness that crossed Nicholas's face at the mention of his grandfather.

Nicholas sighed heavily, his heart sinking a little. Both his father and grandfather had promised to meet him at the airport, but neither had shown up. It wasn't the first time, and he had learned not to expect too much from their busy schedules, but that didn't make it any less disappointing.

The dismay must have been plain on his face, because Mark's jovial expression softened. "Oh, Nico," he said gently, kneeling down so he was eye-to-eye with the boy. "Your grandfather's tied up with an important affair right now. He wanted to be here, really. And your father…" Mark hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching Nicholas's face for a reaction. "Well, he called me. Said he'll be back tonight to meet you. He's, uh... at a business meeting."

Nicholas cut him off before he could continue. "A business meeting, I know," he said flatly, the familiar explanation doing nothing to ease his disappointment. He had heard it all before—his father was always at some business meeting or another, always too busy to spend time with him. It stung, but Nicholas was used to pushing those feelings aside. He quickly masked his emotions and forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"It's fine, Mark," Nicholas added, his tone more composed now. "I'm looking forward to the estate anyway. I can't wait to stroll through the gardens again. Maybe Grandfather will let me try shooting this time, now that I'm eleven."

Mark chuckled softly, though his eyes remained sympathetic. "I'm sure he will," he said, patting Nicholas on the shoulder before standing back up. "You're growing up fast, after all."

By the time they arrived in front of the sleek, foreign white sports car, Mark's eyes lit up with boyish excitement. "Ah, my Fairlady!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with affection as his hand gently caressed the car's hood as though it were made of delicate porcelain. There was an almost reverent gleam in his eye as he admired the vehicle, his carefree demeanor unaffected by Nicholas's more subdued mood.

Nicholas, despite himself, couldn't help but crack a small, restrained laugh at Mark's theatrics. It was hard not to be influenced by the man's boundless energy, even when he didn't feel much like laughing. "I might even let you take her for a spin one day, when you're old enough," Mark said with a grin, his tone suggesting it was both a promise and a joke.

Nicholas raised an eyebrow and glanced at the car, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smirk. Another one added to his collection, he thought, barely suppressing a sigh.

Mark, as if reading Nicholas's thoughts, chuckled and shook his head. "I can hear your thoughts from miles away, you know. And I must say, I disagree," he teased, leaning against the car with an exaggerated sigh. "This beauty isn't one for the garage. No, no. She's meant to be driven. Every time. It doesn't do her justice to keep her locked away."

Nicholas didn't reply, though a small part of him found comfort in Mark's predictable banter. The boy let the car door thud shut as he climbed into the passenger seat, settling into the soft leather, his body still slightly stiff from the plane ride. The familiar scent of the car—a mixture of leather and Mark's cologne—wrapped around him like a blanket, soothing in its own way, though his thoughts lingered elsewhere.

"So, any food in mind?" Mark's voice broke through the quiet as he started the engine, its deep purr filling the silence.

Nicholas shook his head, not really feeling hungry. His mind was still caught up in thoughts of his father and grandfather, and the sinking feeling of disappointment lingered at the edges of his consciousness.

"Well, then," Mark announced with exaggerated enthusiasm, his grin spreading wide as he glanced over at Nicholas, "Fish and chips it is."

Nicholas's eyes widened in horror, his lips parting in a groan. "Fish and chips again?" He slumped in his seat, burying his face in his hands. It was, without fail, Mark's go-to meal every time they came back to London, and it had become something of a running joke between them. But for Nicholas, the greasy, overly salty taste was far from appetizing—it was more of a culinary nightmare.

Mark couldn't contain his laughter, clearly enjoying Nicholas's reaction far too much. "You look like I've just told you we're off to eat snails!" he teased, his voice light with amusement. "Come on, it's tradition! And besides, you'll need to refuel before we hit the estate."

Nicholas let out a resigned sigh, sinking deeper into the passenger seat. "It's not the snails I'm worried about," he muttered under his breath, though a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Mark glanced over at him and caught the hint of a smile. "Ah, see? I knew I'd win you over. It's impossible to resist my charm."

As Mark and Nicholas sped through the heart of London in the gleaming white sports car, the city in 1990 unfolded around them like a living tapestry—vibrant, bustling, and full of contradictions. The car glided effortlessly along the streets, surrounded by iconic red double-decker buses and black cabs that darted between lanes. London's signature landmarks rose in the distance, the skyline a mixture of historic grandeur and modern ambition.

On one side, the centuries-old architecture of Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament stood tall, their stone facades weathered by time but still commanding respect. Big Ben loomed proudly, its clock face marking time with precision, as if keeping pace with the relentless energy of the city below. Nearby, the Thames River, winding like a silver ribbon, reflected the late afternoon light, its murky waters glistening beneath the scattered clouds overhead.

Yet, as they drove further, the contrasting pulse of modernity crept into view. Towering office buildings, steel and glass monuments to the city's growing commercial power, began to dominate the skyline. The Canary Wharf development was just starting to take shape, an emerging symbol of London's financial future, though it still lacked the towering presence it would later command. Even in 1990, the city was in the midst of transformation—a blending of the old world with the new, where tradition met progress at every corner.

Mark, his hand steady on the wheel, pointed out a few landmarks with casual familiarity. "Look, Nico—there's the Tower of London. Bet you didn't think people were still locked up in there, huh?" he teased, flashing a grin. Nicholas, though distracted by the passing sights, couldn't help but smile at Mark's quip, even if he'd heard the same joke a dozen times before.

As they wound through the narrow, cobbled streets of central London, the smell of fried food wafted through the open windows. Soon, they arrived at a small, old-fashioned fish and chip shop tucked away in a side street, a relic of a bygone era. The shop's exterior was simple, with a faded wooden sign creaking in the breeze, but it was bustling with life inside. Patrons stood in line, the comforting scent of hot oil and vinegar filling the air as they waited for their paper-wrapped meals.

Mark ordered with the confidence of a regular. "Two fish and chips, extra crispy!" he called out, before turning to Nicholas with a wink. "Trust me, kid, this is the good stuff." Nicholas could only groan inwardly, but despite himself, he couldn't resist the lure of the warm, freshly fried fish once it was handed to him. The crunch of the batter, followed by the soft, flaky white fish inside, was a taste of London that, despite his protests, Nicholas had grown to associate with these trips.

After their meal, the drive resumed, and soon the city's urban sprawl began to fade into the distance. As they made their way toward Windsor, Berkshire, the landscape shifted dramatically. The roads became quieter, the hustle and noise of the city gave way to the gentle rustle of trees and open countryside.

Nicholas stared out the window as the scenery changed, feeling the weight of London lift from his shoulders. Gone were the looming buildings and crowded streets, replaced by vast green fields dotted with grazing sheep, old stone walls, and picturesque villages. The air felt fresher out here, the sky a clearer shade of blue as they moved away from the industrial heart of the city.

Windsor itself, with its rolling hills and ancient oak trees, seemed like something out of a storybook. The sprawling estates and grand manors came into view, nestled in the countryside, their grandeur quietly commanding. And, of course, there was Windsor Castle—an imposing fortress of grey stone perched on a hill, its turrets and towers piercing the sky, a symbol of British royalty that had stood for nearly a thousand years. Even Nicholas, who had seen it many times before, couldn't help but be impressed by its majesty.

When they approached Nicholas's grandfather's estate, the winding road narrowed, bordered by towering hedges and iron gates. The old stone manor, tucked away in the Berkshire countryside, was both familiar and imposing. It seemed to watch over the land with the same quiet authority as the nearby castle. For Nicholas, this place was a strange mix of comfort and distance—a home away from home that never quite felt fully his.

Mark slowed the car as they approached the sprawling estate, the tires crunching over the gravel, a soft, rhythmic sound that seemed to echo through the stillness of the countryside. The quiet, rolling fields stretched out endlessly before them, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. Long shadows danced across the landscape, casting a serene, almost nostalgic air over everything. Nicholas gazed out of the window, his heart a mix of anticipation and unease. This place was more than just a family home; it was a repository of memories, expectations, and unspoken legacies, all waiting for him to step back into its embrace.

As they neared the large iron gate, a middle-aged man in a tuxedo appeared, standing tall with a wide smile. His face lit up as he waved to the incoming car. The gate itself groaned with age as it slowly swung open, its creaking sound filling the air, marking the threshold between the outside world and the private sanctuary of the Gryff family.

Mark brought the car to a gentle stop beside the man, rolling down the window as they exchanged greetings. "George!" Nicholas and Mark called out in unison.

George, the estate's main butler, had been with the family for years, a fixture of Nicholas's childhood during every stay at the manor. His smile was warm as his eyes landed on Nicholas first. "Welcome home, Young Master," George greeted, his voice formal but filled with a subtle fondness. Then he turned to Mark, his expression shifting into one of respectful acknowledgment. "To you as well, Sir Mark."

With a slight bow, George gestured toward the long driveway that stretched out ahead of them. "Please proceed to the porte-cochère. I'll be right behind you," he said, his voice calm and steady, as always. Nicholas followed his gaze down the path and saw the manor in the distance, standing tall and proud like a fortress. Despite having visited countless times, the sight of it always stirred something deep within him—an awe that never quite faded.

As they drove past, Nicholas caught sight of a black sedan parked neatly to the side of the road, a familiar vehicle that George often used to navigate the extensive grounds of the estate. Once they passed, he turned slightly in his seat, watching as George closed the gate behind them, the iron bars clanging shut with finality, sealing them into the private world of the Gryff family.

The estate grounds were as meticulously maintained as ever. Towering trees lined the drive, their massive branches forming a canopy that filtered the sunlight, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow over the car as they moved forward. The trees stood as silent sentinels, ancient and strong, their roots digging deep into the earth that had belonged to the Gryff family for generations.

Ahead of them lay a wide-open field that encircled the manor, a vast expanse of lush green that seemed to stretch endlessly. It was pristine, as though not a blade of grass was out of place. The manor itself loomed in the distance, its stone walls rising above the landscape like a castle from a forgotten time, steeped in history and secrets.

As they approached the heart of the estate, a row of carefully sculpted bushes flanked the driveway, their shapes intricate and artful, a testament to the precision and care with which the grounds were tended. Each bush seemed perfectly aligned, adding a sense of order and elegance to the otherwise untamed beauty of the surrounding nature.

The driveway led them in a gentle curve toward the porte-cochère, a grand circular road with a striking stone statue at its center. The statue was of a magnificent lion, reminiscent of the one from their dynastic crest, standing tall on its hind legs, its muscular form captured in mid-roar. Its mane was intricately carved, every strand of stone seeming to ripple with motion as though the lion might spring to life at any moment. The fierce expression on its face conveyed both power and nobility, its sharp eyes gleaming with the protective strength of a guardian. The craftsmanship was extraordinary, with every detail—from the curvature of the lion's powerful paws to the fine texture of its mane—etched with precision. It exuded a sense of majesty and courage, symbolizing the strength and heritage of the Gryff family.

"Majestic, isn't it?" Mark remarked, his voice tinged with a hint of wonder as his eyes lingered on the lion statue. The grandeur of the estate seemed to catch him off guard every time. "Your ancestral house always amazes me."

Nicholas glanced at him, catching the wistful tone in his voice. "We're both part of the family," he emphasized firmly. "It's your ancestral house as well."

Mark's smile faltered, the brief vulnerability in his expression vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. "I'm not part of the family now, remember?" He gave Nicholas a helpless smile, his voice softer, tinged with regret. "Mother disowned me."

There was a moment of awkward silence as the weight of his words hung between them, but just as quickly, Mark shifted the conversation with an almost forced lightness. His tone grew brighter, as if brushing aside the heaviness of the topic. "Anyway," he said, clapping his hands together and straightening his posture, "George is here. Let's get your luggage sorted out first."

Nicholas noticed how Mark's eyes darted away from him, focusing on the approaching figure of George instead, as if determined to avoid the sensitive subject. It was a swift deflection, and one that Nicholas had come to expect from him whenever the past was mentioned. Mark's easygoing nature always seemed to surface when things became too personal, and this was no different.

Entering the manor, Nicholas was greeted by the familiar grandeur of the foyer. The room was a masterpiece of old-world elegance, embodying the wealth and history of his family's lineage. At the center of the room stood the grand staircase, sweeping upwards in a regal arc, its mahogany railings polished to a deep sheen that gleamed under the light of the grand chandelier. The staircase, adorned with a rich crimson carpet, beckoned visitors with an air of timeless dignity, while its intricate balustrades showcased the finest craftsmanship of a bygone era.

Above the staircase, hanging like a crown jewel, was an immense crystal chandelier, its countless facets scattering light in every direction, casting soft golden hues across the room. The light reflected off the glossy marble floor below, a striking black and white checkerboard pattern that stretched across the expanse of the foyer, giving the space an almost royal air.

Framed on the walls were oil paintings of Nicholas's ancestors, each portrait framed in gilded gold. The figures in the paintings, clad in period attire, gazed down with solemn pride, their expressions immortalized in brushstrokes that whispered of tradition and responsibility. These were the men and women who had built this house, who had guarded the family legacy, and now it was Nicholas's turn to walk in their footsteps.

Flanking the entrance were two massive marble columns, their white surfaces smooth and cold to the touch. Between them hung rich tapestries depicting historical battles and scenes of valor, further cementing the sense of heritage. But what truly caught Nicholas's eye was the dynastic crest that hung proudly over the wall—a magnificent depiction of a lion.

The lion, sculpted with breathtaking precision, was poised mid-roar, its muscles taut and its mane flowing in intricate, lifelike waves. Its eyes, crafted with such detail they seemed to gleam in the flickering light, embodied both strength and wisdom. The lion stood on its hind legs, encircled by a wreath of laurel leaves, a symbol of victory and honor. Beneath it, the family motto was etched into a bronze plaque: Virtus et Honor—"Valor and Honor." The crest was a symbol of the family's dynastic strength, linking them to their founder, Godric Gryffindor, though this connection was a well-guarded secret, even his grandfather forbid bragging of such lineage. Though, Nicholas could not understand why, he nonetheless complied. 

"Young Master," George began, his voice calm and measured, the epitome of professionalism. "Your afternoon tea has been prepared at the veranda. Kindly make your way there, and I shall see to it that your belongings are arranged in your room." His posture was impeccable, his hands folded behind his back as he spoke, every inch the picture of a seasoned butler.

"Have you also prepared the gramophone?" Mark interjected, his tone light and playful, as was his custom. "We could use a bit of music to liven up our little tea time, don't you think?"

Without missing a beat, George responded, his voice even but with a slight bow of acknowledgment, "I anticipated your request, Sir. The gramophone has been set up, and I've selected a collection of records to suit the mood."

Mark gave a warm smile, clearly pleased. "Always meticulous, George. I don't know how you do it."

"Merely attending to my duties, Sir," George replied smoothly, offering a gracious nod before discreetly retreating to see to the luggage.

Mark led Nicholas toward the side door that opened into a beautifully furnished room. The space was a study of elegance and understated opulence—polished wooden furniture with intricate carvings, soft armchairs upholstered in rich burgundy, and a fireplace that crackled gently in the background. The scent of fresh wood and the faint, smoky aroma of the hearth filled the air, giving the room a warm, welcoming feel. Large windows allowed natural light to stream in, casting a golden glow on the hardwood floor, and offering a view of the lush gardens beyond.

Connected to the room was the veranda, a peaceful open space overlooking the sprawling grounds. As they stepped outside, they were greeted by the sight of a perfectly arranged tea service—delicate porcelain cups and saucers, a silver teapot that gleamed in the afternoon light, and a spread of freshly baked scones, finger sandwiches, and pastries. Everything was immaculately laid out on a round table draped in white linen, with small vases of flowers adding a cheerful touch to the scene.

To the side, as promised, stood the gramophone. Its brass horn shone in the sunlight, and beside it was a carefully curated stack of records, just as George had mentioned. The soft hum of the countryside surrounded them, the gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the nearby trees, creating a serene atmosphere.

Mark let out a contented sigh, admiring the scene. "You've got to hand it to George—he's impeccable. This is perfection." He shot a glance at Nicholas, whose face seemed to brighten slightly despite his earlier reservations. The setting, with its peaceful elegance and subtle touches of luxury, had a calming effect on him.

"Now, do settle into a seat," Mark said with a gentle tug on Nicholas's arm, guiding him toward one of the cushioned chairs. He gave the boy a warm smile before turning his attention to the stack of records. "While I find us a song that fits such a fine afternoon."

Mark approached the gramophone with an almost reverent care, his fingers gliding over the carefully arranged collection of records. The vinyls were impeccably kept—each one a prized possession of Nicholas's grandfather, carefully curated and protected over the years. Their value was more than monetary; they were the soundtrack to a legacy, moments in time captured in melody.

He paused as he picked out a record, raising it up with a flourish. "Ah, would you look at that! Dream a Little Dream of Me—Dean Richards' version. Isn't he one of your favorites, Nico?" he asked, casting a glance at the boy.

Nicholas nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips as the familiar name sparked a memory. But before he could fully indulge in the nostalgia, Mark's teasing grin widened, his voice adopting a playful tone.

"You know," Mark said, flipping the record between his hands with practiced ease, "your mother let me in on a little secret of yours. Well, I suppose it's not much of a secret anymore, especially in New York's high society." He raised an eyebrow, his smile growing even more mischievous. "Wasn't this the very song you sang to charm that senator's daughter at the gala last summer?"

Nicholas's eyes widened slightly, and before he could protest, Mark playfully slapped his thigh and let out a hearty laugh. "You've inherited that womanizing charm a bit too early, my boy!" His laughter echoed through the veranda, rich and infectious.

Nicholas's face flushed crimson, a mixture of embarrassment and amusement creeping up his neck. He shifted in his seat, trying to hide the smile forming on his lips as Mark's teasing rang in his ears. "I wasn't—" Nicholas began, but Mark cut him off with a knowing grin.

"Don't even try to deny it," Mark winked as he placed the record on the gramophone and carefully set the needle. "She told me you had half the room swooning, and that senator's daughter? Head over heels."

Nicholas groaned, his hands coming up to cover his face, but his laughter couldn't stay hidden for long. Mark's good-natured ribbing was something he'd grown used to over the years, but it always left him feeling a little flustered. "You always make things sound much worse than they are," Nicholas mumbled, still trying to shake off the embarrassment.

"Worse?" Mark chuckled as the first soft notes of the song began to play, filling the air with a smooth, nostalgic melody. "If that's 'worse,' I can't wait to see what 'better' looks like!"

Nicholas finally gave in, laughing along with Mark as the music drifted through the open veranda. The warmth of the sun, the rich aroma of tea, and the lighthearted banter wrapped around them like a comforting blanket. The familiar strains of Dream a Little Dream of Me played in the background, a song filled with memories, and for a moment, the weight of expectations and family legacies felt distant.

The soft hum of the gramophone blended with the gentle rustling of the trees in the garden, creating a soothing backdrop as Nicholas leaned back in his chair. The breeze was cool, tugging at his hair and easing the lingering tension that had been building from the journey.

As he began to sink deeper into his relaxed state, a sharp scent drifted through the air—a familiar, smoky smell that made him open his eyes. There, across from him, Mark had just lit a cigar, the thin stream of smoke curling lazily into the open air. Mark caught Nicholas's gaze and gave a sheepish grin, the cigar held loosely between his fingers.

"Do you mind if I smoke, Nico?" Mark asked, his voice apologetic as he took another puff. "I know I shouldn't, but I can't seem to help myself. Every time I'm in a setting like this, I just... damn this addiction," he added with a grumble, though there was a playful glint in his eyes that Nicholas found amusing.

Nicholas chuckled, the corners of his mouth lifting as he watched Mark exhale a cloud of smoke. "It's fine," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm used to it by now. Every party my mother and I attend, the place is filled with people smoking cigars. Some even offer me one, but she always tells me to refuse."

It was a reality Nicholas had come to accept. High society, with all its glamour and prestige, also had its vices on full display. At every event, there were glasses filled with champagne, cigars offered casually, and a general disregard for anything that wasn't luxurious indulgence. He knew that, if it weren't for his mother's constant reminders to keep away from such things, he might have given in to those temptations by now. But Marilyn's voice had always been firm, a protective barrier between him and the more destructive habits of their world.

Mark raised an eyebrow at Nicholas's words, a small smile tugging at his lips as he tapped the ash from his cigar. "Your mother's a wise woman," he said with a nod. "But... you're getting older now." His smile turned into something more conspiratorial as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "If you want to give it a try when your age is right, I'll let you. We just need to strike a deal." He winked, taking another slow drag from his cigar. "You don't tell your mother."

Nicholas laughed, shaking his head. "You're going to get me into trouble one day," he said, though the thought of it amused him. There was something about Mark's carefree attitude that Nicholas found refreshing—like a stark difference to his usual stoic demeanor of his father.

Mark chuckled in return, reclining in his chair, cigar in hand, and glancing out over the garden with a relaxed expression. "Trouble is just part of growing up," he said with a grin. "But you've got time before you decide whether you want to take up vices like this. For now, just enjoy the music, the tea, and the quiet."

Nicholas smiled, allowing himself to settle back again as Mark puffed away on his cigar. The afternoon stretched ahead, peaceful and unhurried. The melody from the gramophone played softly in the background, marking the passage of time in a way that felt less about urgency and more about savoring the moment.