The high-altitude air was brutally cold, cold enough to make Richie question his life choices.
If he so much as opened his mouth, the freezing wind and snow violently forced their way down his throat. He had no choice but to duck down as low as possible behind the sidecar's tiny windshield.
Thankfully, halfway through the flight, Grandpa Dawson leaned over and handed him a small hip flask.
One sip of whatever was inside immediately sent a burning wave of heat through Richie's body, finally warming him up.
After what felt like an eternity, the flying motorcycle began a slow descent, dropping out of the clouds and aiming toward a small town below.
Lumiville, France. Godwin Farm.
"Yee-haw!"
The motorcycle touched down, carving a long, deep trench through the snow before finally skidding to a halt in front of a sprawling house.
Through the lit windows, Richie could see a crowd of people moving around inside. The sound of loud, cheerful singing drifted out into the cold night.
Richie pulled off his helmet, climbed out of the sidecar, and aggressively rubbed his frozen cheeks to get the blood flowing again.
"Come on, my boy!"
Grandpa Dawson laughed heartily, slapping Richie firmly on the shoulder.
"Welcome to Godwin Farm!"
"That's right, Godwin Farm!"
"Prying this massive chunk of land out of the hands of those stubborn Frenchmen took me a hell of a lot of work!"
With that, Dawson proudly marched toward the house.
Just as they reached the porch, the front door swung open from the inside. A house-elf wearing a filthy, torn T-shirt stepped out.
"Oh, Master!"
"Geeth was just going to fetch some more milk... Master Harnett got entirely too drunk and threw up everywhere!"
"Merlin's beard! That lightweight Harnett... loves to drink, but he absolutely can't hold his liquor!"
Dawson frowned in disgust and waved a hand dismissively.
"Go on, get the milk..."
"Wait!"
Dawson stopped the elf and pointed squarely at Richie.
"From now on, he is the Young Master of Godwin Farm. That means he is your master too, understand?"
"Oh, Geeth hears Master loud and clear!"
Geeth immediately threw himself at Richie's feet, aggressively trying to kiss the snow-covered porchboards right in front of him.
"Young Master!"
Richie frowned and quickly jumped to the side, completely dodging the house-elf's frantic bowing.
"Young Master... did... did Geeth do something wrong?"
"Oh, Geeth is a bad, bad elf..."
Seeing Richie actively avoid him, Geeth instantly panicked, raised his tiny fists, and started violently bashing himself in the head.
Before he could hit himself more than twice, Dawson casually kicked him aside.
"Enough of that. Go get the milk!"
Hearing the order, Geeth immediately scrambled to his feet and scurried off into the snow.
"Alright, let's get inside. I've been dying to try that rum spiked with dragon's blood!"
Watching his grandfather march into the house, Richie turned to Annabelle, deeply confused.
"Aunt Annabelle, is Grandpa Dawson... rich?"
"The Godwin family is wealthy. Or at least, we used to be."
Annabelle quickly corrected him.
"Our family historically made our fortune as master perfumers. We used various potions and magical ingredients to create high-end perfumes that were incredibly popular among witches."
"But when the Dark Lord rose to power, Dad liquidated all our assets in Britain and fled to France. That's when the family business essentially collapsed."
"Honestly, though? I don't think Dad ever actually liked making perfume. After Mom died, he totally dropped the act. He started making massage oils instead, specifically so he could go down to the beaches and offer free oil rubs to pretty young witches."
Hearing that, Richie raised an eyebrow.
The old man was a player?
Then again, looking at Dawson—a rugged, older guy riding a flying motorcycle—he probably did pretty well for himself in France.
Following Annabelle, Richie stepped through the heavy oak doors.
The second they crossed the threshold, a massive wave of warmth washed over them.
Dozens of candles floated near the ceiling, casting a bright, golden glow across the entire room.
A massive, beautifully decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner. Glowing baubles hung from the branches, and a magical flurry of soft snow drifted down from the top of the tree, vanishing the exact second it touched the floorboards.
The main hall was packed. About twenty or thirty witches and wizards in various styles of robes were standing around with drinks in hand, laughing and talking loudly.
On a long oak dining table, a set of enchanted knives and forks floated in mid-air, automatically carving up a massive honey-glazed roast and several turkey legs.
"Ha! The Head of the Godwin Family returns!"
"Get in here, old man!"
"Oh, by Merlin's beard, look who just walked in!"
The crowd quickly noticed the two people trailing behind Dawson.
"It's Annabelle!"
"The radiant Godwin Rose!"
"And who's the kid...?"
The wizards clearly didn't recognize Richie. Dawson ignored their murmurs, marching straight to the center of the hall and clapping his hands loudly.
"Alright, everyone! I apologize for the delay. Had to go pick someone up."
"Though I must say, I'm deeply offended that someone managed to drink themselves into a stupor before the party even officially started! Breaks my heart!"
A roar of laughter echoed through the hall.
"Now then, allow me to introduce my daughter, Annabelle Godwin! The little Godwin Rose you all watched grow up!"
Annabelle offered the crowd a polite, familiar nod.
She leaned down and quickly whispered the context to Richie.
Every single person in this room was a British wizard who had fled to France during the war. Because the local French magical community wasn't exactly welcoming to refugees, the British expats naturally stuck together for survival and support.
Since the Godwin family already had a highly specialized trade, they had established themselves much faster than the rest. Dawson, being naturally generous and loyal, had stepped up to help the others. Because of that, he had unofficially become the leader of their tight-knit expat community.
Seeing Annabelle, the wizards in the crowd raised their glasses and called out warm greetings.
"And this," Dawson boomed, throwing an arm around Richie's shoulder, "is my biological grandson from all the way back in England... Richie Harland!"
"As of this year, he is officially a Hogwarts student!"
The room instantly fell silent. Everyone stared in complete shock.
A biological grandson in England?
Dawson had literally never mentioned having a grandson before.
"Ho ho! A grandson?"
"You sly old cowboy, you kept that buried deep!"
An older wizard with a long, jagged scar running down his face stepped out of the crowd and walked right up to Richie.
"Let me get a look at you... Ah, yes..."
"Those are definitely the Godwin amber eyes."
"But this hair..."
The scarred man reached out, aiming straight for Richie's messy hair.
Richie immediately leaned backward, completely dodging the hand.
"Ha! The kid's got sharp reflexes!"
The scarred man laughed, reaching into his robes and pulling out a tiny, gleaming glass vial.
"A single drop of Felix Felicis. Consider it a welcoming gift from an elder."
Felix Felicis?
Liquid Luck?
Richie blinked. He had read about it in the back of his Potions textbook.
It was an incredibly rare potion that granted the drinker absolute, perfect luck for up to twelve hours. Every action they took would succeed, and they would be filled with an overwhelming sense that "anything is possible".
It was notoriously difficult and insanely expensive to brew. There was even a myth that a wizard could only consume it twice in their entire lifetime—because relying on it a third time would trigger catastrophic misfortune, proving the rule that extreme luck eventually violently rebounds.
"Oh, you absolute bastard! You're setting the bar for gifts way too high!"
"Dammit! How am I supposed to give him these dragon-hide gloves now?!"