Henry glanced at his grandmother Elizabeth. She listened in perfect silence, her face remaining utterly expressionless.
Diana watched her son, the lingering worry in her eyes slowly giving way to a complex blend of shock, pride, and deeper emotions that defied easy description.
In that moment she realised the small boy she had once cradled and shielded now transformed before her into a young prince ready to shoulder the weight of family and crown. She could no longer simply shelter him as a child.
Charles sat with one leg crossed over the other and spoke at last, his voice thoughtful. "You have considered matters far into the future, Henry. Yet the risks involved…"
"Risks exist everywhere, Father," Henry interjected smoothly. "Even remaining within Buckingham Palace carries its own dangers. The difference lies in the unknown nature of the perils in the magical world and the unprecedented rewards they may yield. If we turn away from this opportunity out of fear of the unfamiliar, our descendants centuries from now may well accuse us of cowardice at the precise moment history offered the monarchy a chance to expand its influence."
He turned once more to the queen and offered a slight bow. "Of course, Grandmother, all of this rests upon your approval and continued support. My foremost identity remains that of your subject, and every step I take must align with the broader interests of the monarchy and with your will."
The study sank into silence again. Every gaze shifted toward Queen Elizabeth II behind her desk.
The queen remained quiet for a long moment. At last she lifted her eyes, letting her gaze travel slowly across her son, her daughter-in-law, and her husband before settling on the face of her grandson—so strikingly reminiscent of George VI.
"Responsibility," she declared with quiet clarity, "you grasp it well, Henry. That is the true weight of the crown: it compels you to perceive what others cannot see and to bear choices others never face."
She gave a single, decisive nod.
"I support your attendance at Hogwarts according to the arrangements agreed with Headmaster Dumbledore. I also endorse your perspective. But remember," her tone grew absolute, "safety remains the absolute priority. Your first duty is to return unharmed. No strategic consideration may ever override that. Do you understand?"
"Completely, Grandmother." Henry nodded with solemn resolve.
"As for you, Diana," the queen continued, her voice softening as she addressed her daughter-in-law, "I know how difficult this must be to accept. Yet Henry's path now lies before him. All we can do is prepare him thoroughly and place our trust in his judgment and courage. He needs that trust from us, just as this family needs the responsibility he willingly carries."
Diana's eyes glistened, but she straightened her spine, nodded firmly, and tightened her grip on Charles's hand.
Prince Philip gave a short snort of approval, crossed the room, and clapped his grandson's shoulder with robust force. "Well spoken, lad. Now act like a man!"
In the days that followed, the rhythm of palace life appeared to resume its familiar cadence.
Alongside his usual Muggle lessons, Henry devoted himself to practising spells. Each morning at half past six he settled in a private sitting room in a quiet wing of Buckingham Palace.
Before him waited not only cereal and juice but also an open copy of Standard Spells: Beginner's.
The mornings themselves remained dedicated to Muggle studies—history, literature, mathematics, and more—guided by his private tutors.
During brief intervals he sometimes joined his grandmother Elizabeth for light official duties: previewing a charity art exhibition, meeting a decorated veteran in the garden, or fulfilling a royal obligation by appearing on television.
On those occasions he became Prince Henry once more, offering a flawless smile and impeccable manners.
His precocious intelligence and, more importantly, his strong resemblance to his great-grandfather George VI—who had led Britain through the trials of the Second World War—had earned him genuine affection from the public.
As a result, Henry's popularity continued to rise.
After lunch and a short rest, the afternoon belonged to magical preparation. He withdrew to his study and pored over the early chapters on magical channeling in Theory of Magic, painstakingly copying the runic alphabet with a quill rather than a fountain pen or ballpoint.
After all, quills were the standard at Hogwarts, and the practice allowed him to grow accustomed to them in advance.
He experimented with the levitation charm, progressing from feathers to pen caps. Success came in fleeting bursts, accompanied by minor mishaps that the servants politely pretended not to notice.
Interspersed among his notes arrived background summaries from Sir Arnold, delivered through encrypted channels.
The material read dry yet proved remarkably illuminating: a Ministry of Magic official whose Muggle spouse's family held investments in the textile industry, or a pure-blood family that had contested a land dispute with a Muggle noble in the eighteenth century.
Henry meticulously catalogued every seemingly unrelated fragment in a separate notebook.
Evenings occasionally reverted to family. William and Harry would burst into his rooms, peppering him with eager questions about his magic practice.
Henry often obliged with the simplest glowing charm, producing a steady halo of light at the tip of his wand. The sight never failed to leave his younger brothers gasping in wonder.
Diana came each night to say goodnight. She would smooth his hair, ask whether he felt tired, and let the worry in her eyes slowly yield to a pride she tried—without complete success—to conceal.
Charles sometimes took him for quiet walks, discussing environmental projects or suddenly inquiring, "Do you suppose wizards possess any answers for climate change?" The questions sounded whimsical, yet Henry recognised his adoptive father's genuine effort to comprehend the potential value of the wizarding world.
On weekends a car carried him to Windsor Castle to visit his great-grandmother, the Queen Mother.
Though ninety years old, she remained remarkably spry and especially cherished this great-grandson who had shown exceptional brightness from earliest childhood.
In the sunlit drawing room, surrounded by the comforting aromas of tea and fresh cake, the Queen Mother listened with delight as Henry recounted both the triumphs and frustrations of his magical practice. Her grey-blue eyes sparkled with laughter.
"Oh, my dear, how wonderful!" she would exclaim, patting his hand. The old-fashioned ring on her finger caught the light as she praised him. "When I was a little girl I read fairy tales and always wished they might be real. I never dreamed my own little Henry would actually attend such a place! Remember, no matter what clever tricks you learn, you must return and perform them for your great-grandmother."
She never pressed for details and showed no trace of worry, offering instead the purest, most open-hearted support born of a lifetime of experience.
On one occasion she reached into a small drawer with a mysterious smile and withdrew an antique brooch set with gemstones. "Wear this, my dear. Old things sometimes carry good luck. This one dates from the Victorian era."
Henry accepted the gift with solemn gratitude. He understood it held no magic; its true value lay in inheritance and blessing.
Time slipped forward gently within the warm embrace of family routine, and the date of the school term crept steadily closer on the calendar.
Finally, the first of September arrived.