patreon.com/palevolt100 _Read early chapters of up to chapter 105
+++++
The twins exchanged a glance at Henry's description.
"A Corgi," Fred said, turning it over thoughtfully. "Sixty-five years old. Dislikes waste."
His eyes lit up.
"Any chance you could get hold of some Corgi fur?"
Henry considered this briefly. His grandmother's house was, if anything, more Corgi than house.
"I should be able to, yes."
"Then you don't need to buy anything," George said, picking up seamlessly from Fred. "Collect some fur from one of the Corgis at home, just make sure it's clean. We have a special glass jar: shake it, and the fur inside assembles itself into a small Corgi. Label it 'Spare Corgi.'"
"'In case the current Corgi's parts begin to wear out,'" Fred added.
"Or: 'Assemble your own Corgi, add love to taste, following the instructions on the side.'"
"Draw a smiling Corgi on the outside," Fred continued.
"Add a label that says, 'I am broken. Please help put me back together.'"
The two of them deteriorated completely at this point, collapsing against the backs of their chairs with laughter that rendered them temporarily incapable of speech.
Henry did not laugh. He was, in fact, quite certain his grandmother would love this gift, both the humour and the thoughtfulness underneath it were exactly right.
He picked up a quill and wrote carefully on the blank parchment in front of him:
Grandmother—Spare Corgi Jar (Corgi fur required—collect before leaving)
Fred's laughter stopped abruptly.
"You're actually writing it down?"
"Yes," Henry said, without looking up. "Next, a gift for my mother."
"Your mother," Fred repeated, sitting up. "What does she like?"
Henry gave a brief description of Diana's character and preferences. The twins exchanged a look.
"A colouring book," George said, after a moment's thought. "Not an ordinary one. The kind where the lines inside squirm away when you try to colour them, twist out of their outlines and flee to the next page. You have to chase them with a wand or a finger, catch them, and then you can colour them."
"We made one for Ginny last Christmas," Fred added, and for once his expression was entirely without performance. "A cat picture. Every time she coloured, the cat jumped out of its frame and ran to hide somewhere else on the page."
George nodded. "I think your mother would enjoy that."
Henry wrote it down.
By the time the tea party concluded, the parchment was covered in small, dense notes. Fred stood and stretched, and his gaze fell on the page.
"Your family is genuinely unusual," he said, and the seriousness of it made the observation feel like a compliment rather than an observation.
"My grandmother set the rules," Henry said, closing the notebook.
"So you can only give cheap gifts?" George raised an eyebrow. "And the stranger the better?"
"Yes. I don't entirely know why the rule exists, but there it is."
He looked up. "When can you deliver? Before I leave for the holidays tomorrow?"
"Leave it to us," Fred said. "Tonight, without fail."
Henry reached into his pocket, drew out his small purse with the Undetectable Extension Charm, counted out ten Galleons, and stacked them on the table.
"A deposit," he said.
"That's too much," George said, waving his hand. "The Canary Creams cost a few Sickles at most, and the jar is—"
"Labour has value," Henry said, with a calm smile, "and knowledge is worth considerably more than materials. After delivery, I'll pay you another forty Galleons. And I hope you'll continue developing new and unusual items. There will be many more Christmases, after all, and I intend to need your help with all of them."
The framing was elegant: it acknowledged the value of what they had contributed, gave them a reason to accept the money that was impossible to argue with, and pointed at a long and mutually beneficial future all in the same breath.
"We'll accept it, then," Fred said finally. "Thank you for your generosity, Your Highness."
"Henry," Henry said pleasantly.
After Fred and George had left the second-floor classroom, Henry sat alone at the table and finished the last half-cup of tea in unhurried silence.
Lucy appeared and began clearing the dishes.
Her small hands moved quickly and precisely, the white porcelain teaware stacking itself with the quiet efficiency of someone who has done exactly this a thousand times.
"Your Highness," Lucy said softly, without stopping her work. "Those two Weasley gentlemen, Lucy knows them. They come to the kitchens at night sometimes and take things."
"Hmm."
"But they never waste food. And they don't bully the house-elves." She paused very slightly. "They play jokes sometimes. But they are not bad."
Henry set down his cup and looked at her.
"I know."
Lucy bowed and disappeared with a soft snap.
In Gryffindor Tower, Fred and George practically glided through the portrait hole and into the common room, both of them wearing the particular expression of people who have recently had a very good idea confirmed.
Ron, sitting by the fire playing Wizard's Chess with Harry, looked up and regarded them with immediate suspicion.
"Are you two under the Imperius Curse?"
"Better," Fred said, dropping into an armchair with great satisfaction. "We've received our first official commission."
Ron looked from one to the other.
"What commission?"
George sat down and lowered his voice by approximately one dramatic degree. "Prince Wales has hired us to develop Christmas gifts. A formal business arrangement." He produced the ten Galleons from his pocket and arranged them in a neat stack in front of Ron.
Ron stared at the pile of gold coins for a long moment with the expression of someone who has just bitten into a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean and received one of the worse options.
"You made Christmas gifts for a Slytherin."
"Not for a Slytherin," Fred corrected, with the patience of someone making an important distinction. "For Henry Wales."
"Is there actually a difference?" Ron looked genuinely baffled. "You two have always hated Slytherin."
"Oh, there's a very significant difference, Ron," George said, and for once his tone was almost gentle. "He isn't 'a Slytherin.' He's Henry. The same way Harry isn't 'a Gryffindor.' He's Harry."
Ron opened his mouth, considered the response he had been about to make, and found that it didn't quite hold together.
It was, he supposed, true. Henry was not like the other Slytherins. He had never really been.
He closed his mouth, turned back to the chessboard, and made his next move without further comment.
Fred and George exchanged a look across the common room and, by mutual unspoken agreement, said nothing more about it. They had work to finish.