"Welsh?" Draco's eyebrows drew together in a deep frown. "I don't recall any pure-blood family bearing that surname. It sounds more like a country, doesn't it?"
"In fact," Henry replied, lifting a napkin and dabbing it elegantly against his lips, "that was my father's fief."
Draco's gray eyes blinked rapidly while his frown only deepened. He clearly ransacked every pure-blood register and British aristocratic lineage drilled into him since childhood.
"A fief? You mean… a territory? A Muggle noble's?"
Curiosity sharpened his tone rather than contempt, as though he needed only the right label to slot Henry neatly into place.
Henry raised his wine glass, took a measured sip of water, and moved with the effortless grace Draco recognized yet found somehow more innate.
"You could say that," he answered lightly, as casual as if they discussed the weather. "Just an old custom."
He met Draco's scrutiny without flinching. Nothing in the statement rang false; the title of Prince of Wales had indeed been bestowed upon his father according to ancient tradition.
The reply, paired with Henry's unshakable composure, clearly unsettled Draco. He had already encountered his Muggle-born classmates—the boisterous Gryffindor know-it-all from earlier and Harry Potter trailing after the red-haired Weasley.
They had either frozen with nerves or bubbled over with excitement at every magical detail.
Yet this Henry Welsh sat composed far beyond his years, radiating the same nonchalant ease Draco sensed only when his parents entertained truly important guests.
"An old custom…" Draco repeated, tasting the words.
He noticed how Henry handled the silver cutlery with textbook precision and showed no flicker of surprise when the roasted chicken and self-moving tripe had materialized.
A Muggle—even a wealthy Muggle noble—would surely have reacted to food that appeared from thin air and dishes that twitched on their own.
"Yeah," Henry chuckled softly, "Malfoy… right? If I remember correctly, our ancestors knew each other."
Draco opened his mouth to respond, but Pansy Parkinson, seated on his other side, could no longer contain herself.
She had been listening with rapt attention, and now her voice rose in a high-pitched rush. "Welsh? I think my father once mentioned a 'Prince of Wales' among the Muggles—their crown prince. Does that have anything to do with you?"
Henry turned to her with a slight smile.
"Oh, that's my father."
Pansy's mouth fell open as though a Silencing Charm had struck her; her shrill voice lodged in her throat. Her sharp, judgmental eyes widened, studying Henry's face as if she truly saw it for the first time—or rather, grasped at last what that face truly meant.
Draco's already pale cheeks flushed crimson. He understood exactly what this revelation implied: not mere Muggle nobility, but the very pinnacle of the oldest, most symbolically powerful elite in the entire Muggle world.
The Malfoy family might scorn Muggles, yet they would never scorn power, no matter its source.
"You… you mean," he stammered, recalling Henry's earlier words, "that our ancestors knew each other?"
"Yes." Henry set down his knife and fork, lowering his voice so only the two of them could hear. "According to royal records, in 1066 the first ancestor of the Malfoy family, Armand de Malfoy, followed my ancestor William I—William the Conqueror—into England. For his service he received a fief in Wiltshire. Current official documents show that same fief passed down to Lucius Malfoy, but I wonder who he might be…"
"Indeed… indeed, my father." Draco wiped his brow, unconsciously adopting a far more formal tone while every trace of his earlier arrogance dissolved.
He sat visibly astonished by the precise royal genealogy Henry had just laid bare.
Henry gave a small nod and picked up his cutlery once more, posture relaxed as though they had merely traded opinions on the weather.
"History is always intertwined, Mr. Malfoy."
"Draco." The other boy's attitude shifted at once. "Just call me Draco—what do you think?"
I still prefer your previous attitude; could you please revert to it?
"Alright, Draco…" Henry steered the conversation back to safer ground. "But that was a long time ago. Now we're all new students at Hogwarts, and that's what matters most, isn't it?"
He acknowledged the ancient tie while gently reminding them both of their equal status as first-years, offering Draco an easy exit.
Draco seized the lifeline at once.
He straightened in his seat, struggling to reclaim some poise, yet his tone now carried genuine respect.
"Of course, Your Highness. Slytherin would be a perfect fit for you." This time he skipped the surname entirely, using the formal title and stressing the house name as though elevating Henry into his own domain of expertise.
Pansy finally shook off her stunned silence. She watched Draco's obvious change in demeanor, then studied Henry's calm expression, and wisely closed her mouth before any further questions could escape. Still, her eyes darted between them, bright with curiosity and rapid calculation.
She resolved then and there to write her father that very night.
Draco, of course, reached the same decision; he intended to inform Lucius at the earliest opportunity.
Henry returned Draco's overture with a polite smile and turned his attention back to his plate, taking a few graceful bites of pudding. A fleeting, almost imperceptible flicker of embarrassment crossed Draco's face before he masked it beneath an even more attentive expression.
"Of course, Your Highness is right," he said, forcing his voice to sound relaxed and natural. "Life at Hogwarts is the most anticipated thing right now. My father told me the Slytherin dormitories lie right under the Black Lake, with views of the giant squid from the windows—very unique. You'll like it."
Pansy chimed in quickly. "Yes, and our Slytherin common room is the most tasteful of all."
Henry noted the complete shift in both their attitudes but chose not to comment.
He finished the last of his fruit with his usual elegant composure, leaving his plate spotless.