Pansy pressed her lips together. "But what will the other Slytherins think? If we're seen associating with Hufflepuffs regularly—"
"That's precisely why it needs to be handled with care," Henry said. "There's no need to announce anything or make it a point of discussion. We simply behave with a degree of openness: collaborate in class, share materials in the library, have an occasional informal exchange like this afternoon. Over time, that becomes unremarkable."
Daphne spoke softly, turning it over as she went. "It's rather like Wizard's Chess, isn't it? Laying out pieces in advance, building connections, preparing ground for possibilities you can't yet fully see."
"Exactly," Henry said. "And we gain considerably from the process itself."
He watched the shift move across the three young faces—from uncertainty, to comprehension, to something that was almost excitement—and said no more about it.
"Remember," he added, "true power is not measured by how many people you keep out, but by how many you can draw together and influence. If Slytherin's ambition never reaches beyond its own walls, it will be an ambition that limits itself. Our vision ought to extend across the whole of Hogwarts—and eventually, beyond."
Draco took a slow breath. "I understand, Your Highness. This isn't a betrayal of tradition. It's upholding it more intelligently."
"A very precise way of putting it." Henry gave him a brief, approving nod. "Now let's go back. I heard the kitchens are sending up a chocolate waterfall cake this evening, and it would be a shame to miss it."
That evening, the Slytherin common room went about its usual business—Quidditch debates, complaints about homework, competitive boasting about one thing or another—but something new had worked its way quietly into the atmosphere.
"He really thinks we should take Hufflepuff seriously?" A third-year student had settled back on the sofa by the fire, his tone sceptical, having caught fragments of the afternoon's conversation from Draco.
"Not that we should take them seriously," Draco corrected. "That understanding them is a strategy. Think about it—if we have no idea what Hufflepuffs are actually thinking, how do we know they won't be turned toward Gryffindor or Ravenclaw at a critical moment? They're the largest House."
"What could they possibly be thinking?" another student said, with a dismissive wave. "They spend half their time in the kitchen and the other half by the fire."
"That's prejudice," Daphne said quietly, from an armchair slightly apart from the group, her Potions notebook open on her lap. "I've been thinking about what His Highness said this afternoon. If everyone sees Hufflepuff exactly that way, and we are the first to offer them something that feels like genuine respect—even a small amount of it—that goodwill becomes an unexpected resource when we need it. That's entirely Slytherin, isn't it? Doing what no one else bothers to do, and finding value where others see none."
Several of the older students looked up. Prefect Farley, who had been reading quietly nearby, glanced over the top of her book at Daphne and Draco for a brief, thoughtful moment before returning to her page.
In the girls' dormitory, Pansy pulled Millicent aside and lowered her voice. "He's right, you know. We can't stay fixed on Gryffindor. The whole school is like a garden—pulling out a weed here and there changes nothing. You have to understand the soil." She was making an effort at Henry's style of analogy, and while the execution was a little stiff, the reasoning was sound.
Henry himself took no part in the discussion. He had noticed that his system progress had moved to 99.50%.
He turned it over in his mind as he made his way back to the dormitory. Inviting students from different Houses to afternoon tea had apparently been worth a quarter of a percentage point. Interesting.
Theodore was reading a spellbook by lamplight when Henry came in, and looked up just long enough to nod before returning to it.
Henry appreciated this in him. He settled at his desk and opened the latest summary from Sir Arnold, which this time covered the factional shifts among certain Ministry of Magic officials in the early twentieth century and their connection to events in the Muggle world.
The neat, precise handwriting on the parchment compressed a great deal of turbulent history into clean lines of interest and cause.
At one point Henry paused and added a small note in the margin:
The Hufflepuff family's traditional associations with land, herbs, and magical creatures may offer potential points of connection with Muggle agriculture and environmental concerns.
He closed the parchment and set it aside.
In the Hufflepuff common room, warm air carried the faint scent of toast. Hannah, Susan, and Justin were gathered around a round table near the kitchen passage, with several curious first-years having drifted over to join them.
"He actually said Hufflepuffs are like the Keeper—the team's strongest support?" said a boy named Wayne, his face carrying the particular bright expression of someone who has just been told something they had been wanting to hear for a long time.
"He did," Hannah confirmed, still slightly flushed. "And he said that a lot of wizards who did genuinely important work throughout history, without ever becoming famous for it, were Hufflepuffs."
"He asked us what we thought of Slytherin as well," Justin added. "And actually listened to the answers. Without getting defensive about any of it."
"I think he genuinely wants to change something," Susan said, settling back in her chair. "Not through speeches or grand gestures—in a practical way. He said friendships shouldn't be bounded by House. It sounds simple, but at Hogwarts—"
Several Hufflepuffs sat with that for a moment. They were not often called upon to think about things on that scale, but once their sense of fairness and their desire to be genuinely seen were engaged, the seriousness with which they approached it was something else entirely.
"We could ask the Ravenclaw students if they'd want to review together before the next History of Magic test," someone offered, tentatively. "They always seem to have better notes."
"Or we could help anyone who's struggling in Herbology," another voice suggested. "Regardless of House."
A seed, once planted, finds its own way.
Higher in the castle, in the Headmaster's study, Dumbledore stood before the Pensieve, silvery threads of memory turning slowly within its stone basin.
Occasionally he would lift one with the tip of his wand, turn it over in the light, and set it gently back.
"Albus, you seem particularly attentive to this year's first-years," murmured a wizard in a portrait on the wall, red-nosed and faintly disapproving. His name was Ravencrest.
Dumbledore looked up and smiled. "The careful gardener always pays attention to an unusual seedling, Ravencrest—particularly one that appears to be watering soil that has gone dry for rather a long time."
"Through tea parties and conversation?" came a sharp voice from another portrait. It was Phineas Nigellus Black, his thin beard bristling with displeasure. "Slytherin and Hufflepuff sitting together? Ha!" The final syllable communicated everything he thought of the idea. "When I was Headmaster, the four Houses were not divided the way they are now!"
"Oh, quite right, Phineas," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "Because in your time, the four Houses had a common enemy, didn't they?"
Phineas Nigellus Black's expression turned rigid. He began muttering something about acting in the students' best interests, and something else about troublesome students who made life unnecessarily difficult for headmasters. A faint, cheerful atmosphere settled over the room.
"So," said the portrait of a female former headmistress from across the study, her voice thoughtful and measured, "you're not concerned he might become another Voldemort?"
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