Hogwarts: My Grandmother is the Queen

Chapter 143 A Visit to the Dursleys' House (Fourth Update)

"I'll wait," Henry said.

"Okay. Please wait."

A slight sound came from the other end of the phone. Henry leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the garden outside the window.

Sunlight shone on the lawn, where several pigeons strolled about, occasionally lowering their heads to peck at something.

In the distance, under the shade of a tree, Harry was squatting on the ground studying some kind of insect, with William assisting him.

Harry should be fine, but he can't very well go to the Dursleys' house in person; that's against the proper etiquette.

Henry knew about the boy's life in the Dursleys' household.

Although the original work did not describe every detail in detail, the oppression of living under someone else's roof, the loneliness of not being treated as family, and the childhood of being locked in the cupboard and treated as if they were invisible were indeed extremely oppressive.

The Dursleys' attitude towards Harry was less that of guardians and more that of a troublesome family forced to take him in. They fed Harry leftovers; dressed him in old clothes that Dudley could no longer wear; and put him in the cupboard under the stairs until letters from Hogwarts started arriving, at which point they reluctantly moved him to Dudley's second bedroom.

However, on the other hand, Henry wouldn't criticize the Dursleys' actions. After all, a child whose entire family had just been wiped out by a terrorist organization was a hot potato no matter how you looked at it, especially since Vernon and James had a very bad relationship.

Don't persuade others to be kind to others without suffering.

But that didn't stop Henry from being a little willful and agreeing to his classmate's request, doing him a small favor.

McLean's voice came from the other end of the phone, interrupting his thoughts.

"Your Highness, we've found it."

Henry sat up straight.

"explain."

"The registered residents of 4 Privet Drive are Petunia Dursley, Vernon Dursley, and Dudley Dursley. There is also a minor, who, according to the registration information, should be Mrs. Dursley's nephew, Harry Potter. He is indeed eleven or twelve years old."

McLean paused here, seemingly looking through some records.

"In the past week, there have been no police dispatches, no ambulance calls, and no reports of irregularities at this address. However..."

"But what?"

"Three days ago, a neighbor called the police, saying there was something strange going on next door. The caller claimed that she saw the Dursleys' back door locked from the outside and the second-floor window welded shut. The boy named Harry had been seen at the second-floor window looking very anxious, and she suspected that the boy had been locked up."

"Have the police been dispatched?"

“We sent two men over,” McLean said. “When they arrived, Mr. Dursley came out to greet them and said it was just a family matter, that the child had been put in solitary confinement for misbehaving. They let the child come out to see the police, and the child said it was nothing, that he had been punished for misbehaving. The police took a note and left.”

Henry frowned.

Was he put in solitary confinement?

Lock the back door from the outside?

He appeared at the window looking very anxious?

And when you see the police, you say you're fine?

"What were the names of those two policemen?" he asked.

"Officer Cole and Officer Blake. Both are frontline patrol officers with five years of experience and no criminal record."

Henry nodded, though the other person couldn't see him.

"I understand. Is there anything else?"

"No, Your Highness. Everything is normal at that address; there have been no further reports. Should I send someone to check again?"

Henry thought for a moment.

"No need," he said. "No need for now, but if there are any similar calls to the police again, please notify me directly."

"Understood, Your Highness, I will make a note of it."

"Thank you, Officer McLean."

"You're welcome, Your Highness. I'm at your service at any time."

Henry hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the window, his mind racing.

Harry was locked up.

This is obvious. The Dursleys' explanation sounds like a pretext.

However, we need to find a way to get Harry out.

He picked up the phone and dialed another number.

This time it's a private number.

After two rings, the other end answered, and it was a steady, middle-aged male voice.

"John Hawthorne, please speak."

"Mr. Hawthorne, it's me."

The voice on the other end changed.

"Your Highness, what are your orders?"

John Hawthorne was one of the Prince of Wales's private assistants, responsible for handling matters that required special attention.

He had previously worked for MI5, but was later recruited by Charles to handle matters that couldn't be discussed openly.

He knows when to appear, when to disappear, when to speak, and when to shut up.

He is the kind of person you can trust.

"There's a child named Harry Potter who lives at 4 Privet Drive, Little Huigkin, Surrey," Henry said. "He's currently under guardianship, and I need to check on his situation."

"Locked up? Is it the illegal kind of imprisonment, or—"

"The kind of door that's locked from the outside," Henry said. "The neighbor called the police three days ago, they went, but they were brushed off. I need to know how he is now, whether he's safe, whether he's been hurt."

"Understood." John's voice became professional and crisp. "Should I send someone to check it out?"

"Well," Henry said, "check his condition. If my friend is indeed being illegally detained, bring him to Kensington Palace—remember, be careful with the methods and approaches, after all, they are his aunt and uncle."

"Your Highness, rest assured, I understand," John said with a smile.

After hanging up the phone, Henry put the receiver back and leaned back in his chair.

Outside the window, Harry finally caught the bug and ran towards Diana, who jumped back in fright. William laughed so hard he almost fell over.

He withdrew his gaze, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes to rest.

4 Privet Road, Little Huigkin District, Surrey.

At 3:15 p.m., a Land Rover pulled up on the quiet street.

The car was new and shiny, but it didn't have any ostentatious logos.

The license plate is a private plate; it is neither for government use nor for commercial purposes.

But anyone in the know can tell at a glance that the owner of this car is either very rich or very powerful.

John got out of the driver's seat and straightened his suit cuffs.

He was dressed in a formal suit, a white shirt, a dark blue tie, and his leather shoes were polished to a shine. His hair was neatly combed, his face was expressionless, and his eyes were indifferent.

He glanced at the house number, then walked towards the door of number 4 and rang the doorbell.

Footsteps came from inside, and then the door was opened a crack, revealing a small, pig-like eye—no, it should be called a small eye, but it was on a pig-like human face.

"Who is it?" Vernon's voice came from under the door, sounding impatient and wary.