Amid the emotional turmoil that had plagued the young boy all day, Richard paid no attention to the dull, nagging pain in his tooth. But at home, during dinner, food lodged in it—and the boy howled in excruciating pain.
John came running at once at the sound of the cry. He rushed up to Richie and asked anxiously:
"What happened? Where does it hurt?"
"My tooth!" Tears sprang to Richie's eyes as he clutched his right cheek with his leading hand. "My tooth hurts…"
"Oh!" the valet sighed.
It was hard to tell whether he was relieved that it wasn't a serious injury or distressed by the child's pain. "Well, it's a long way to Chester to see our dentist," he began thinking aloud. "Hmm… In that case, 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 at speed. Finding the page with dental clinics, he searched for the nearest one. Once he had located a suitable clinic, the valet dialed the number and made an appointment.
Soon, Richie—accompanied by John—took a taxi to the dental clinic. Unfortunately, Gerald had left early that morning in the Bentley on business, so they had to make do with whatever was at hand. But Richie didn't care what they rode in; to him, all the surrounding transport seemed antediluvian anyway. All he wanted was to reach the dentist as quickly as possible and get rid of the pain. Nothing else meant nothing to him at that moment.
John brought his charge to a small private dental clinic. It had a modest waiting room with a few chairs for visitors and a small table. The clinic contained only two dental offices.
After Dr. Granger finished treating the boy's tooth, Richard went out to the waiting room. John stayed behind in the doctor's office to pay and discuss the details of further treatment, such as rinses and follow-up care. Since the valet was a very persistent man, the conversation promised to be a long one.
Richie was incredibly happy to be free of his toothache. The relief left him positively euphoric.
In the waiting room, the boy noticed a girl sitting at the table, writing something in a notebook.
She looked to be about ten years old, with bright brown eyes and unruly, thick brown hair. Her front teeth were slightly larger than usual. She was wearing a dark blue school uniform: a skirt, a jacket, and a white blouse.
Noticing Richard, the girl looked up from her notebook and studied him with curiosity.
"Hi," she said. "Are you one of my dad's clients?"
"If your dad is Dr. Granger, then yes. I'm Richie."
"I'm Hermione Granger. Nice to meet you."
"I'm extremely pleased to meet you as well," Richie replied, flashing a white-toothed smile that clearly revealed the absence of one tooth. "Until the anesthesia wears off, I'm the happiest person in the world. By the way, lovely hairstyle—it really suits you."
"Don't be ridiculous!" Hermione puffed out her cheeks indignantly. "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 worked as a courier, all the fashion minded girls wore hairstyles like that."
"You work?!" Hermione's face lit up with surprise. She stopped being offended when she realized Richie wasn't joking.
"Not anymore. I worked there for a couple of months."
"Cool! But how did you work? You're just a kid."
"Hermione, it only seems that way," Richie chuckled and went on. "Actually, my father made me work part-time in his office. And I should note, the "carrot" was a big one. For that kind of reward, any donkey would work himself to the bone."
"What about school? Or did you work after classes?"
"I finished junior school."
"You don't look like a twelve-year-old," Hermione said skeptically, her face and voice reflecting doubt. "You look more like my age."
"I didn't say how old I was. I'll be nine this summer."
"No way!" Hermione exclaimed incredulously. "You're lying to me!"
"I wouldn't even think of it. I passed my exams as an external student and spent the last six months studying in fifth grade. But I got tired of it, so I pushed hard with my studies and passed the exams for the entire junior school. My father and teachers think I'm a genius, but I don't see it that way."
"A genius…" Hermione looked upset. "And I have to study in fourth grade, even though I'll already be ten in September. Why wasn't I born three weeks earlier? It's unfair that some people finish school early, while others have to study longer!"
"Life is unfair in general," Richie shrugged, then decided to change the subject. Nodding toward the notebook, he asked, "What are you writing?"
"I'm just…"
Hermione's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she covered the notebook with her hands.
"Don't be shy. If it's love poems, I'll understand."
"No, they're not love poems!" Hermione protested. "It's something else…"
"Hm-m~... You certainly know how to pique a man's interest."
"Pff!" Hermione smirked. "Man!" she said sarcastically. "You're a boy—and you'll stay one for a long time."
"It depends on how you look at it. For some people, a few years is a long time. As for me, I'd like to remain a child as long as possible. Injuries heal almost instantly, teeth grow back a second time, and you don't have to work… Although the latter doesn't apply to everyone. In any case, it's better to be a boy than an adult."
Hermione froze for a moment. She sat there for a few seconds with a distant look in her eyes. Then she stirred and exclaimed:
"You're crazy!"