He poured himself more tea and asked conversationally, "Your families must have many stories about the inheritance of magical skills, I imagine? Not the grand, sweeping history Professor Binns recounts, but something closer—the kind of wisdom passed down around the family fireplace."
The topic was safe and appealing. Draco began recounting certain legends of the Malfoy family in potions and collecting, while Pansy interjected with an account of the Parkinsons' involvement in a well-known nineteenth-century debate over the rights of magical creatures. Henry listened attentively, asking questions at well-chosen moments to draw them further out.
As the tea and pastries were gradually consumed, the atmosphere eased into something comfortable and unhurried, warmed by the scent of black tea and the low murmur of conversation.
Henry guided the pace throughout, never pressing too deeply into sensitive matters of lineage, nor allowing the talk to drift into empty complaints.
He raised the subject of Hogwarts' ghostly portraits, compared the differences between Hogsmeade and the Muggle countryside, and touched on the distinct character of the Scottish landscape versus the English.
When Pansy paused once more to marvel at the delicacy of a French pastry, Henry set his teacup down with a faint, clear clink—enough to draw their attention back without demanding it.
"Actually," he said, his voice unhurried, "Hogwarts—and indeed the entire wizarding world—reminds me of certain things I've read about. Ancient families, long-standing traditions, meticulously maintained rules... these are invaluable things. The cornerstones of power."
Draco and Pansy both looked at him, waiting.
"But history also tells us that clinging to tradition alone is never quite enough. Sometimes a new perspective is needed—a new kind of connection."
His gaze moved slowly between them. "Like this afternoon tea. It originated in my world, yet sharing it here, in the wizarding world, with the two of you, seems to give it a different kind of charm entirely. Different systems of thinking can coexist—they can even complement each other."
He paused, watching Draco's thoughtful expression and Pansy's barely contained excitement.
"Slytherin values ambition and resources. But true resources may not be limited to Galleons and ancient spellbooks—they include information, unique perspectives, and social bonds that transcend the ordinary."
He left the thought unfinished. The meaning was clear enough.
Draco turned the words over slowly, while Pansy was already composing a letter to her father in her head.
As the afternoon tea drew to a close, Henry reached for a small, unassuming silver bell on the table and gave it a gentle shake. Moments later, several Hogwarts house-elves appeared and began tidying up with swift, silent efficiency, as though nothing had ever been disturbed.
As they left the classroom, Pansy thanked Henry warmly, her eyes bright with genuine eagerness. Draco walked beside Henry for a short distance, and before they parted ways, he spoke up abruptly: "A very interesting afternoon, Your Highness. Perhaps we can do this again."
"You're welcome anytime," Henry replied with a smile.
After they parted, Henry instructed Lucy to finish seeing to the room, then returned to his dormitory and sat down to write.
To my dearest Grandmother,
Written at the window of the Slytherin cellars, Hogwarts Castle.
I hope that when this letter reaches you, the gardens of Buckingham Palace will still be bathed in warm autumn sun. Mercury—you remember, the snowy owl who always strikes a rather philosophical pose—seems to have taken a genuine liking to crossing the lake to deliver messages, a task that makes him appear far more solemn than he ever does when eating nuts.
At the Sorting Ceremony, I was placed into Slytherin House, a house that prizes honour and bloodline—and one from which, it must be said, many distinguished wizards have emerged. Merlin himself is reputed to have come from this very house.
Life at Hogwarts is, as Professor Dumbledore suggested it would be, full of wonderful surprises. The castle itself feels rather like a breathing, living thing; the staircases change direction of their own accord, and the figures in the portraits not only converse with one another but offer unsolicited commentary on the students passing beneath them. I have had to stay rather alert, lest I be mocked by some painted knight for having a worse sense of direction than a troll on my way to class.
As for the courses—Professor Binns' History of Magic is quite enough to lull even the most energetic person to sleep. One cannot ask for too much, of course; he is, after all, a ghost. In contrast, the Herbology theory lesson shared with Ravenclaw was far more engaging. Professor Sprout is very kind, and her illustrated atlas of magical plants is remarkably vivid. Potions and Charms do not begin until tomorrow, and I find myself genuinely looking forward to both.
What I ought to report to you most, however, is not the coursework, but a small experiment in the form of afternoon tea. This afternoon, after our History of Magic lecture concluded, I invited two of my Slytherin classmates—Mr. Draco Malfoy and Miss Pansy Parkinson—to take tea with me in a quiet, empty classroom within the castle.
You once taught me that maintaining familiar rituals in unfamiliar environments provides a kind of stability, an invisible measure of equilibrium—a lesson I have kept close. Please allow me to thank you again for your thoughtful and generous arrangements. The assistance of Lucy, the house-elf assigned to me by Headmaster Dumbledore, was impeccable, and what might have been a very simple affair became a proper one.
The effect was quite interesting. Mr. Malfoy was visibly surprised at first; he is well acquainted with the convenience and spectacle of magic, but clearly rather less experienced with the particular weight that ritual carries in another tradition. Miss Parkinson, by contrast, proved more sensitive to detail, marvelling at everything from the glaze of the bone china to the recipe of the scones. We spoke about the House, the curriculum, and family history—naturally, only what they were willing to share and nothing that touched on sensitive matters—and compared the character of Hogwarts to that of the English countryside.
I tried to convey that I respected their traditions and the values Slytherin prizes. At the same time, I offered what I hope were some complementary perspectives—the possibility that old traditions and new ways of thinking need not be in opposition. Judging by their reactions, this message was received, and perhaps even over-interpreted: Miss Parkinson's eyes carried the particular gleam of someone who has spotted a new investment opportunity, while Mr. Malfoy fell into a more complex contemplation—a mixture of curiosity, careful assessment, and a stubborn reluctance to let his interest show.
It is only a beginning, Grandma. I am playing a slow game of chess, and this first move was simply the placing of pieces. Slytherins believe in power and self-interest; mere friendliness counts for very little here. One must demonstrate value. Afternoon tea is the first form of value I have offered—not Galleons, but style, a certain access to things beyond their ordinary experience, and a kind of social capital they had not anticipated.
Miss Gemma Farley, our prefect, is still observing me quietly. That is perfectly fine; it tells me she is cautious, which is as it should be.
Please do not worry about me—I am quite comfortable here, and rather at ease. My roommate, Theodore Nott, is a quiet young man, observant and an avid reader. We have arrived at a very agreeable understanding of not disturbing each other, which suits me well. The coursework, though peculiar, is genuinely challenging.
Have William and Harry found their way into some new trouble? Kiss their mischievous cheeks for me, and tell them their brother is learning to make teacups float by themselves—that ought to buy you five minutes of quiet, at least. My deepest love to Great-Grandma; may she always be in the best of health. Please also convey my thoughts to Father and Mother, and tell them I am doing well and applying myself diligently—including to the art of politely conversing with a talking stone serpent.
Forever yours, your loyal and devoted grandson,
Henry
---
Henry wrote that letter not once, but again—a second version, addressed separately to his father and mother.
By the time he set down his quill, his hand ached from the effort.
He sighed.
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