When Draco returned to the three-person room he shared in the Slytherin dormitory, his two roommates were clumsily attempting to stick Chocolate Frog cards to the wall beside their beds, their hands already smeared with chocolate.
A sweet, cloying smell hung in the air. Draco wrinkled his nose, the crisp, delicate memory of the afternoon tea room flickering unbidden through his mind.
Those had been rather finer surroundings.
He waved a hand in response to his roommates' mumbled greetings, ignoring them entirely, and went straight to his desk. He drew out a sheet of special parchment bearing the subtle watermark of the Malfoy family crest and picked up his quill.
What followed was far more careful and extensive than his usual brief letters home to reassure his mother he was safe. He described Henry Wales—emphasizing the royal significance of the name—and noted Henry's private meeting with Dumbledore at breakfast.
He did not know the specifics of their conversation, but that detail alone struck him as worth reporting. Then, marshalling every word at his disposal, he set about describing the afternoon tea in full.
The bone china with its platinum rim, the contents of the three-tiered pastry stand, the particular manner in which Henry had poured the tea—an ease that could never quite be imitated—and his perceptive reading of Slytherin's unspoken rules, his respect for the traditions of ancient families, and those final, deliberate words.
Draco wrote his assessment plainly: He is far more than a merely curious novelty. The resources and perspectives he represents are unique—perhaps unprecedented in our own circles. He speaks of mutual benefit, Father, and I believe he warrants further observation and limited contact. He seems to understand our rules rather well.
At the bottom of the letter, he added a single line: He calls me "Draco," in private.
Almost simultaneously, in the girls' dormitory, Pansy was hunched over her own desk, her quill flying across the page, the flush of excitement still bright on her face.
Her letter to her father was more effusive, dense with description: ...You absolutely cannot imagine how exquisite that tea set was—more refined than the antiques we saw at the Magic Manor auction. Every movement His Highness Henry made (Draco insists on the honorific, and I think he's right) was like something out of a painting. The way he spoke—oh, Father, he spoke with such knowledge and such genuine respect when he brought up the goblin rights debates the Parkinson family had been involved in! He said the Slytherin traditions were clear and well-structured, and that someone as methodical as Gemma Farley was destined for power... I don't think he is simply trying to make friends. It feels more like he is establishing something—a kind of salon, the sort you once described to me, the kind that used to flourish in the French wizarding world. He sits at the centre of it, and Draco and I are, I believe, the first guests he has invited. That matters, doesn't it? I think we ought to value this connection.
That evening, Lucius received his son's letter.
He sat by the fireplace with Narcissa, reading it by the shifting light of the flames.
"I never imagined there would be a member of the Muggle royal family among this year's new students," Narcissa said, a note of genuine surprise in her voice. "And a Slytherin, no less."
"Not merely a member of the royal family—the eldest son of the Prince of Wales, the heir apparent." Lucius's expression was unreadable.
"Do you think Draco should pursue the connection?" Narcissa asked.
"This could very well be an opportunity, Sissy." Lucius smiled faintly, then said, "The Ministry's stance grows more unsettling with each passing month, and Fudge is a complete fool—far too easily manipulated."
He paused, his gaze drifting to the dark window. "Since those days, the standing of pure-blood families in the wizarding world has grown increasingly precarious. There are those who now advocate compromise with Muggles... perhaps this changes certain calculations."
Narcissa's brow furrowed slightly, her tone edged with distaste. "But Draco's letter says Dumbledore is plainly making things easier for the boy—that old madman."
"And that is precisely where it becomes interesting, and where the risk lies." Lucius turned to face her. "Dumbledore is, at the very least, tolerating this—and quite possibly encouraging it. The boy is being allowed to build influence within the castle. That suggests there may be some understanding between him, or the Muggle royal family behind him, and Dumbledore—something we are not yet privy to."
"But if even Dumbledore considers it worth investing in..."
He did not finish the thought, and he did not need to. Narcissa already understood him perfectly.
"Then you mean—" she began.
"Let Draco continue making contact and keep a close eye on things." Lucius's decision was swift and firm. "But carefully. We cannot appear too eager—that would suggest the Malfoy family is the one seeking favour. The impression must be one of equal exchange, grounded in mutual respect and shared potential."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice measured. "Guide Draco to learn from this prince—not merely those polished table manners, but the underlying logic. How Muggle society's upper echelons operate, how power moves among them, and how they regard the wizarding world. That kind of information is worth far more than Galleons."
He drew out a sheet of parchment bearing the silver serpent emblem, took up the emerald-encrusted quill, and began his reply to Draco.
His handwriting was an ornate, deliberate cursive.
...Your keen observation is commendable. Seeking the company of those who possess uncommon backgrounds and perspectives is a quality and a foresight befitting a future gentleman. Remember that the Malfoys appreciate elegance and wisdom, in whatever form they may happen to appear.
Dumbledore's attention is a signal worth noting, but not one to be over-interpreted. Direct your energy toward understanding the world this Mr. Wales represents—its history, its rules, and its way of thinking. There may be more of value there than is immediately apparent.
Maintain your composure and your judgment at all times. A few well-chosen family anecdotes—nothing that touches on anything essential—make for perfectly suitable conversation, but more importantly: listen. Knowing how to draw useful information from an exchange is a more practical skill than any spell you will learn this term.
Compared to the Malfoys' measured approach, Mr. Parkinson's reply to Pansy was considerably warmer in tone.
Both families were members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and committed pure-blood traditionalists, yet the Parkinsons had long held a somewhat different view than most: that Muggle nobility and wizarding pure-bloods were, in certain respects, cut from the same cloth.
There was even an old and faintly absurd symmetry in it—pure-blood wizards and Muggle aristocrats alike placing the highest possible value on the purity of their lineage.
And the circumstances of the moment made it all the more relevant. Pure-blood families had been in decline for years, their former influence much diminished, their old certainties badly shaken by the failure of their former master. Many were quietly casting about for a new direction.
Henry's arrival at Hogwarts presented itself, to those with eyes to see it, as precisely that kind of opportunity—a chance to restore a family's standing through a connection that was, to say the least, without precedent.
A boy of royal blood, the eldest grandson, the direct heir to the most powerful throne in the Muggle world: what that signified required no explanation.
To put his daughter entirely at ease, Mr. Parkinson went so far as to retrieve from the family library a dusty account of an ancestor's loyal service to the Crown and the fiefdom that had followed from it.
The following morning at breakfast, two replies descended into the Great Hall of Hogwarts and landed precisely at the young master's table.
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20PS=2 extra chapters
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