The funeral was a blur of muted colors and hushed voices. Rain fell in a gentle mist, beading on the black umbrellas of the few mourners who had gathered to pay their respects. Arthur stood between the twin mahogany caskets, his face a carefully composed mask of grief, while inside he felt a curious hollowness. Not an absence of emotion—the pain was real enough—but a disconnection, as if part of him was observing the proceedings from a clinical distance.
There weren’t many attendees. His parents had been only children of their respective families, and his grandparents had passed away years earlier. A handful of his father’s business associates were present, along with several of his mother’s colleagues from Imperial College. Their faces were solemn, their condolences sincere but awkward. What does one say to a child who has watched his parents murdered?
"Such a tragedy..."
"If there’s anything we can do..."
"You’re being so brave..."
Empty platitudes that filled the air and faded just as quickly. Arthur went through the motions, accepting handshakes and whispered condolences with quiet dignity, but feeling utterly disconnected from it all. His parents were gone. Buried. Reduced to mories and photographs. The finality of it settled upon him like a shroud, heavy and suffocating.
In the days following the funeral, amidst the logistical whirlwind of cleaning up the manor and settling his parents’ affairs, the matter of Arthur’s guardianship arose. He was, after all, a minor in both the Muggle and magical worlds—a fact that created a bureaucratic nightmare for the authorities involved.
There were not many options in the magical world since Arthur was a muggle-born and had no relatives in the magical world who could take care of him, which was the standard procedure followed there. There were no orphanages in the magical world.
Thus, it fell to the non-magical authorities to handle his guardianship. He was only ten years old, and with no living relatives, the logical solution would have been placent in an orphanage. But Arthur refused.
"I don’t need a family," Arthur stated firmly. "I can take care of myself."
The adults exchanged skeptical glances.
"You’re ten years old," Agent Harlow pointed out, her tone suggesting she was dealing with a particularly stubborn child rather than soone with legitimate concerns.
"Almost eleven," Arthur corrected. "And I’ll be attending Hogwarts in a few months, spending most of the year there anyway. In the anti, I have my house. I have money. I have all I need."
"It’s not about material provisions," Bones countered. "Children need supervision, guidance—"
"My parents are dead," Arthur interrupted, allowing a calculated edge of anger into his voice. "No one can replace them. No one can provide what they gave . What I need now is stability, not to be shipped off to strangers or an institution."
He leaned forward, eting their gazes directly. "I won’t accept placent in an orphanage. I’ll run if you try to force ."
The threat hung in the air, its implications clear. A magical child with Arthur’s demonstrated power, desperate and on the run, could create significant problems for both magical and non-magical authorities.
Several etings followed over the next two weeks, with various officials debating his fate as though he weren’t even present. Eventually, a compromise erged—one Arthur suspected was as much a matter of bureaucratic convenience as it was of his welfare.
He would be allowed to live in the smaller London townhouse owned by his family, rather than the manor where his parents had died. However, he would be assigned a liaison from MI6’s Supernatural Division to check on him regularly and report on his adjustnt. Should he prove unable to manage independently, the arrangent would be terminated, and more traditional guardianship imposed.
That liaison turned out to be Aurora Thatcher, a junior agent in her late twenties with sharp eyes and an air of no-nonsense efficiency. Their first eting took place in the townhouse Arthur had already begun setting up as his new ho.
"Let’s be clear about expectations," she said after the introductions, refusing the tea he’d offered in a deliberate show of dostic capability. "I’m not your nanny, your housekeeper, or your friend. I’m here to ensure you’re safe, healthy, and not causing problems for either world."
"Understood," Arthur replied, appreciating her directness even as he noted the wariness in her posture. She was treating him like a potentially unstable elent—which, considering the circumstances of their connection, was probably justified.
"I’ll be checking in three tis a week initially," she continued. "Random visits, at my discretion. I’ll need to see that you’re maintaining appropriate living conditions, attending to your education, and generally behaving like a responsible human being instead of a feral child."
"Will you be testing on my tis tables as well?" Arthur asked dryly.
A flicker of amusent crossed her face before she suppressed it. "Don’t be smart. This arrangent is unprecedented and, frankly, precarious. One misstep, and you’ll find yourself in a group ho faster than you can say ’emancipation.’"
Thus began Arthur’s new life as an independent ten-year-old. The first order of business was to consolidate his resources. With Aurora’s reluctant assistance, he arranged for the sale of most of his parents’ properties, retaining only the manor (which he couldn’t bring himself to part with despite the painful mories) and the London townhouse where he now resided.
The sale of the properties was complicated by inheritance taxes, which consud a significant portion of the proceeds. Arthur was furious about this but powerless to prevent it—his father had not established the kind of trusts or legal structures that might have sheltered the assets from such claims.
"Financial planning apparently doesn’t account for assassination," he muttered bitterly as they left the solicitor’s office after signing yet another set of docunts.
Aurora, walking beside him, gave him a sharp look. "That’s not a word you should throw around lightly."
"Why not? It’s what happened." Arthur stopped on the pavent, facing her directly. "Have they made any progress finding who was behind it? Those n weren’t random burglars. They knew my father’s na. They were professionals."
Aurora’s expression shifted subtly—a tightening around the eyes that confird his suspicions before she could compose herself. "The investigation is ongoing," she said carefully.
"Which ans they either have no leads or they’re not sharing them with ," Arthur translated.
She didn’t deny it. "You’re a child, Arthur. So information isn’t—"
"They were my parents," he cut in, his voice low and intense. "I watched them die. I have a right to know who was responsible."
A flash of genuine sympathy crossed Aurora’s face. "As far as we can determine, your father’s impressive investnt gains attracted attention from certain... individuals who wanted his assistance with their own financial matters. When he declined, citing ethical concerns about their sources of inco..."
"They killed him," Arthur finished flatly. "And my mother. And tried to kill too."
"That’s our working theory, yes."
Arthur absorbed this, his mind cataloging the information while a cold, hard knot of resolve ford in his chest. Soday, when he had the resources and the power, he would find these people. He would make them pay. But for now, he had more imdiate concerns.
With the property sales complete and the inheritance taxes paid, Arthur directed a significant portion of his remaining wealth toward two goals. First, with Aurora’s help and her contacts in the wizarding world, he facilitated the conversion of a substantial sum to gold galleons, establishing a vault at Gringotts in his na. Second, he invested the remainder in companies he knew would thrive in the coming decades—technology firms, pharmaceutical giants, and erging industries that would shape the new millennium.
"These are unusually sophisticated investnt choices for soone your age," Aurora remarked as she helped him finalize the paperwork. "Your father’s influence, I assu?"
Arthur nodded, allowing her to believe what she wished. "He talked about the market a lot," he said simply.
With his financial affairs in order, his living situation stabilized, and the imdiate aftermath of the tragedy beginning to settle, Arthur turned his attention to understanding his new reality. In just a few weeks, he would receive his official Hogwarts letter, marking his entry into the wizarding world.
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