Hogwarts: My Grandmother is the Queen

Chapter 142 Ron Asks for Help (Third Update)

A letter was tied to the owl's leg. The envelope was made of ordinary parchment, with slightly wrinkled edges, as if it had been crumpled many times.

The handwriting on the envelope was crooked and messy, as if it had been written in a hurry—some letters were obviously larger than others, and the spacing between some words was inconsistent, suggesting that the writer was in a rush or that they were not particular about their handwriting.

"What is this?" William asked, leaning forward to try and see more clearly.

"It's a letter, of course," Henry said, putting down his fork, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and then reaching out to untie the letter from the owl's leg.

After completing its task, the owl did not fly away immediately. Instead, it lowered its head, pecked at the bread crumbs on the table, and took a sip of water that had splashed out of the kettle.

It was clearly exhausted and needed to replenish its energy.

"Who wrote it?" William pressed.

Henry glanced at the signature—"Ronald Weasley".

"A classmate," he said.

"What does he want with you?" William's curiosity was completely piqued.

He leaned closer, trying to see the contents of the letter, but knew he shouldn't peek at other people's letters, so he could only watch longingly.

Henry did not answer; he opened the letter and unfolded the crumpled parchment.

The handwriting was indeed messy; in Hermione's words, it looked like the traces left by a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

Some letters were crammed together, while others were too far apart, making the whole letter look like rows of dancing ants.

But upon closer inspection, one can still discern each word—Ron's handwriting, though ugly, is sincere; each letter is written with force, and in some places, he even tore the parchment.

My dear Prince Henry:

I hope you have a pleasant holiday. I know it's a bit presumptuous of me to write to you, but I really have no other choice but to ask for your help.

Here's the thing: Before the holidays, Harry promised to write to us during the summer. You know, he's staying with his aunt and uncle, and he promised to find a way to send letters. But so far, we haven't received a single one.

I wrote him three letters, which were sent by our silly owl, Carol, but I didn't receive a single reply.

Every time Carole came back, my letter was still tied to its paw—it couldn't find Harry, so the letter was returned unopened.

I'm really worried about him. You know, he lives with the Muggles, and they treat him badly. Last year he was locked in his room and almost couldn't come to Hogwarts. I'm afraid something will happen again this time.

I know you have connections in the Muggle world; you're a prince, you must be able to find something. So I'd like to ask for your help to see if Harry is in any danger. I'll be relieved to know he's safe.

If you find anything, please let me know. It doesn't matter what method you use.

By the way, my parents send their regards. My mother said that if Your Highness has time during the summer holidays, you are welcome to visit our humble abode. Although our house is not as grand as the Malfoys', my mother's pies are the best in all of England.

I look forward to your reply.

Sincerely, Ron Weasley Henry, after reading the letter, probably knew what had happened.

Ron may seem carefree and easygoing, but he eats like a wolf, speaks without thinking, wailes before exams, and shrinks back like a quail when Hermione scolds him.

But he's quite reliable when it really matters.

Knowing how to worry about friends, how to seek help, and how to find the right person shows that he's not stupid, at least not confused about important matters.

He folded the letter and put it in his pocket.

"What did it say?" William leaned closer and asked, his curiosity practically overflowing. "Who wrote it? What does they want with you?"

“One of my classmates,” Henry said, “asked me to help him find another person.”

"Looking for someone? Looking for whom?" William blinked, looking serious.

“A classmate who lives with an ordinary family,” Henry explained. “He promised to write during the holidays, but he hasn’t. That classmate is worried that something has happened to him, that he might be locked up or in some kind of trouble, so he wrote to me asking for my help in checking on him.”

William thought for a moment, then his expression became serious.

"So, will you help or not?"

Henry stood up and placed the napkin on the table.

"Of course I'll help him."

As he walked out of the restaurant, William called after him, "Where are you going?"

"Call up."

Kensington Palace’s study is on the ground floor, with windows facing the back garden.

The room wasn't big, but it was furnished very comfortably.

A dark wooden bookcase stands against the wall, filled with all kinds of books, from historical classics to modern novels.

A heavy oak desk stood by the window, with a green-shaded lamp, a brass inkwell, and several quill pens on it.

Besides these, there was also a red telephone.

That telephone was special; it was a direct line to the Scotland Yard duty room.

Anyone who has read Sherlock Holmes knows that the Metropolitan Police Headquarters in London is not called the Metropolitan Police Service, but Scotland Yard.

Scotland Yard is not actually located in Scotland, nor is it responsible for policing in Scotland; it is simply old London.

When the London Metropolitan Police Headquarters was first established, the back door through which the public entered and exited faced a street called "Great Scotland Yard," hence the name "Scotland Yard."

The British police are somewhat special; they are the Royal Police, meaning they are loyal to the Queen.

Although the official explanation was that the Queen had no authority to command them, in reality—

The red casing stands out against the dark desktop, like a warning or a symbol of privilege.

Henry walked over and sat down in the leather chair behind the desk.

He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

The number is very short, only three digits.

It's an internal dedicated line.

It rang twice before the other end answered.

"Scotland Yard, Officer on duty, McLean."

"This is Kensington Palace, Henry," Henry said, his tone remarkably like that of a tall plant making a phone call to Luzhou.

The voice on the other end immediately changed.

"Your Highness, how can I help you?"

"I need to investigate someone," Henry said.

"Please speak."

"A boy, about twelve years old, named Harry Potter. He lives at 4 Privet Road, Little Huigkin, Surrey." He paused for a moment. "I'd like to know about this address—especially if there's been anything unusual recently, such as whether the boy has been seen coming or going, or if there's been any emergency, like an ambulance or police car going to that place."

There was a moment of silence on the other end, broken only by the faint hissing of electricity.

"Your Highness, may I ask whether this is an official matter or a private matter?" McLean asked tentatively.

"It's a private matter," Henry said. "A friend is worried about another friend's safety, that's all. It's not an official investigation, no formal report is needed, just to confirm that my friend is safe and sound."

They visibly breathed a sigh of relief.

"Understood, Your Highness. Please wait a moment, I will have someone investigate immediately. It may take a while. Would you like to wait, or would you like me to call back later?"