When the bell rang like a signal of relief, announcing the end of History of Magic class, Draco was nearly the first to spring from his seat. He brushed imaginary dust from his robes, as if trying to shake off the stale smell of Professor Binns, then fell into step beside Henry as the stream of students carried them out of the classroom, his gray eyes inquisitive.
"Your Highness," he said in a lowered voice, his tone somewhere between casual and tentative, "at least there are no more classes today. You mentioned yesterday that we should chat—about the House, or something else?"
He was clearly still preoccupied with Dumbledore's summons at breakfast and the many mysteries surrounding Henry.
Henry turned his head, offering a gentle, knowing smile.
"Of course. I happen to have prepared some refreshments. There's a quiet, empty classroom upstairs—it's better to sit there than risk being disturbed in the corridor or the common room."
Draco raised an eyebrow, surprised by the mention of refreshments and an empty classroom, though more curious than anything else.
"An empty classroom? Are you sure?"
"House-elves can sometimes provide helpful guidance," Henry said casually, without elaborating. "Just the two of us? Or do you think Miss Parkinson might be interested? I don't mind having another conversation partner."
Draco paused, not having expected Henry to bring up Pansy. He quickly weighed his options: Pansy was talkative, but her family's stance was clear, and she was extraordinarily sensitive to social cues—bringing her along was actually a sensible choice.
"Pansy? Hmm… she's usually interested in these sorts of things. I'll go ask her."
He turned and made his way toward Pansy, who was gathered with several girls, and whispered a few words. Pansy's eyes immediately lit up; her gaze swept quickly over Draco's shoulder to Henry, and she nodded without hesitation, her face bright with excitement.
The abandoned classroom on the second floor had been carefully cleaned. The dust was gone, and several tall windows admitted generous afternoon sunlight, casting warm, dappled patterns across the worn but clean floor.
At the center of the room, several desks had been pushed together and covered with a thick, dark green tablecloth embroidered with the Slytherin House crest. A dazzling set of bone china teaware was already in place atop one of the tables, its thin, translucent walls edged with platinum.
A magnificent three-tiered silver pastry stand rose at the center: the bottom tier held neatly arranged finger sandwiches in several flavors—cucumber, smoked salmon, and jam—with the crusts trimmed away; the middle tier featured scones exuding an enticing buttery aroma, accompanied by Devonshire clotted cream and homemade strawberry rose jam; and the top tier held miniature French desserts—fruit tarts, macarons, and chocolate mousse cups.
Two high-backed armchairs and a smaller chair surrounded the table, all freshly arranged, the air carrying the distinctive muscatel aroma of Darjeeling tea.
When Pansy stepped into the classroom, she gasped, her fingers instinctively flying to cover her mouth.
"Merlin…" she murmured, her gaze sweeping from the tea set to the pastries before settling on Henry's composed face.
This was no ordinary offering from Hogwarts' kitchens, nor anything easily found in Diagon Alley—it was a silent declaration of extraordinary expense.
Draco, for all his efforts to remain composed, could not quite conceal the shock in his eyes. He was no stranger to luxury, but to produce such a complete and ceremonially precise afternoon tea within the castle walls, so quickly and quietly, was beyond anything he could account for.
"Please sit, Miss Parkinson, Draco," Henry said, gesturing as a host might and settling into the armchair of honor with unhurried ease. "I hope the tea is still at the perfect temperature."
He lifted the silver teapot and poured tea into three cups. The liquid was a beautiful amber, steaming gently.
Then he added a small measure of milk to his own cup, every movement precise and entirely natural, unhurried without being slow.
"Please help yourselves," he said.
Pansy picked up her bone china cup almost reverently, marveling at its weightlessness as she sipped carefully.
"This is so exquisite, Your Highness." Her voice was much softer than usual, stripped of its habitual sharpness.
"It's just a habit," Henry smiled, setting a jam finger sandwich onto his small dish with the silver tongs. "In Hogwarts, it's comforting to keep some old customs. Especially," he paused, glancing at Draco, "after a particularly spirited session with Professor Binns."
Draco gave a dry chuckle, though in truth he found the atmosphere entirely to his liking—more refined, somehow, than anything he recalled even at the Manor.
For a fleeting moment, he felt almost more at ease here than he did at his father's table.
"It's certainly more interesting than sitting through those old-fashioned names," he said, reaching for a scone and spreading it with butter and jam as Henry had done. The taste surprised him pleasantly.
"You said you wanted to talk about the House. What do you think of Slytherin so far? Is it what you expected?"
"Very organized and well-structured." Henry set down his teacup and leaned forward slightly, his manner focused and candid. "The way the House operates is quite interesting—everything here seems to follow certain unspoken rules. I must say, Miss Farley is very capable."
Pansy immediately chimed in, her words quickening. "Oh, Miss Farley! She was a top student in her fifth year—everyone says she'll go straight to the Ministry after graduation, perhaps even to the Minister's own office. She's always meticulous; hardly any Slytherin dislikes her."
"Power tends to favor those who are organized, regardless of where they find themselves," Henry remarked gently, then shifted the subject with the same ease. "And the courses? Draco seems to have some reservations about History of Magic."
"I'm looking forward to Potions on Friday—that's where a wizard's true value is demonstrated." Draco straightened in his chair, his familiar confidence returning. "Those complex recipes and precise techniques can't be mastered through rote memorization or recklessness." He gave a knowing smirk, clearly thinking of a certain red-haired Gryffindor. "My father always said that Potions is the culmination of wisdom, bloodline, and patience."
"That sounds very true." Henry nodded without refuting, then turned to Pansy. "Miss Parkinson? Is there a course you're particularly looking forward to?"
Surprised to be addressed directly, Pansy flushed slightly. "I… I think Defense Against the Dark Arts would be interesting. Although this year's professor, Quirrell, seems a bit strange." She wrinkled her nose. "But I've heard that some ancient spells are very elegant—" she glanced at the silverware on the table "—rather like these tea sets."
"A wonderful analogy," Henry said warmly. "Elegance and power coexisting—that is the essence of many ancient arts."
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