If you're curious about the few German phrases I use (which are pathetically inaccurate just because they're modern German, anyway), I use this site - http/ www. freetranslation. com (without spaces, of course) Set it to "German to English" and let the computer work its magic. Other than that, I use Geliebter (beloved) instead of the more commonly known Liebling (darling, but also favorite) because a word that translates (even on occasion) into "Favorite" isn't something a parent of multiple well-adjusted children says lightly, even to his or her grandchild. Resentment in the ranks, and all.
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"Little Henrik!" the captain of the guard called out, trying not to panic. Gerard would be in deep trouble for losing his charge so near the little prince's birthday. A child's giggle reached his ears distantly, and he raced for the sound. Oh, stars, how had the boy gotten so far up a tree? Reminding himself that his parents were both trained as magicians, Gerard steeled himself to climb up.
"Henrik, you really must come down," Gerard insisted in an archaic German dialect that his tribe had used since time beyond near memory – probably since moving to the Black Forest. King Ofen had been a second son to his own royal father, and decided to establish an independent colony in an English forest, Avon.
"'S more fun here," the child giggled back happily in the same language. "I can see your top-of-the-head," he laughed as if this was the most novel thing in the world.
Gerard sighed. "I am not cut out for babysitting."
Instantly Henrik was on the forest floor, pouting. "That was today's password. Do you ALWAYS know, Ger?"
"I do, little highness." He hid a grin.
Henrik sighed. "'M not much of a highness. My brothers despair of my manners. So do my sisters, for that matter."
"They're your aunts and uncles, not sisters and brothers."
"They certainly ACT like brothers and sisters, always fighting about . . . things with me. So many things. Why isn't Jaeger the prince? He's the oldest." Constant shift in conversation was normal for full-grown elves. That Henrik had enough of an attention span to get out a whole question was just more proof of his father's humanity.
"He knew early on he wasn't made for politics. He wants to be entirely self-sufficient, and maybe join the Guard."
"Why not Johann, then? Or Helmuth?"
"Johann wants to be a priest, of course. And Helmuth is more interested in living as a human wizard; healing and protecting victims of crimes like rape," Gerard answered, already tired of this conversation. Unlike the boy-prince, he was not half-human, and he had little interest in answering the same questions Henrik had already asked five times in as many years.
"And all my sisters?"
"Women can't inherit by our laws, Henrik," Gerard pointed out. "Not the throne of the elves, anyway."
"That's not at all wise, don't you think? Grandmamma most definitely the one who makes executive decisions in the family." That startled a snort of laughter from Gerard.
"Well, yes. But your Grandmamma comes from a matriarchal society, and as the third daughter, wasn't going to get much out of it. You know I'm as hopeless at politics as I am at babysitting, Henrik." This was a desperate attempt to change the subject, and effective.
"I don't think you're hopeless at taking care of me," Henrik protested, embracing Gerard reflexively. "And I'm pretty hopeless at politics too. That's why I don't want to be a prince." Though it hadn't worked as well as Gerard had hoped.
"Even if you are a prince, not only does it make very little difference to me, since I have seen you in every state of undress that parents are graced with, it also doesn't make much difference to your family. They all love you, Henrik. Even those sisters – harpies though they are."
"My sisters are not harpies," Harry retorted hotly, pouting.
"No, not really. But, even if you don't want to inherit, they won't think less of you. In families the size of the royal one, there's always someone willing to rule. And maybe your Grandmamma will see your Grandpapa about changing the title-inheritance laws in reference to females."
"Yeah, maybe," Henrik sighed. "Am I going to be trained like Mum was? With a bit of wood and all?" He found the whole idea distasteful, using bits of trees to do magic.
"Don't worry about the trees," Gerard advised. Henrik sighed again – Gerard always knew what he was thinking. "The wizards do ask before they take wand-wood, at least. And they only take a bough or two."
"Well, at least they're not as wasteful as the Muggles," Henrik admitted grudgingly. "Tree-killing…" he trailed off the words that were less nice. "When will I go to That School?" he asked. Gerard didn't need him to specify. His Grandmamma certainly called it that enough.
"When you're eleven. Not long, now, and they'll be sending an owl."
"An owl? One that delivers mail?" Henrik asked excitedly. "Like Johann's doves?"
"Bleedin' carrier pigeons," Gerard muttered. "Yes. The owl will deliver your letter. We have talked about this before."
"I know. But…I want to learn about them, you know? My parents. And, even though I do like elf-craft, even elf-mage-craft, I'm half-human. I want to learn about my dad. About his world. And the world Mum grew up in."
"You're very good at elf-mage-craft," Gerard said finally, feeling it best to ignore the rest of the rambling explanation. "Especially the parts with plants and animals, like Identifying and Properties and that Potions and Tonics and Poultices thing."
Henrik laughed. "They're all to do with plants and animals, really!" he confessed. "Though I do like animals – and plants, but animals are like children, a bit, if we just didn't speak the same language."
"It wasn't much of a barrier with snakes," Gerard snorted.
"But snakes and I DO speak the same language. And my snake is teaching me bits of Cat and Dog and naturally I know Bird. She's a good linguist, really, as good as Mandel."
"She's only nice to you so she gets a warm place to sleep," griped Gerard.
"She's teaching me animal languages because I'm interested and it's good knowledge to have. Not many animals learn languages other than their own, snakes included – it's part of her being a magical snake," he shrugged. "Anyway, I'd've let her sleep in my bed even without the lessons."
"But did we really have to find out with your Grandmumma screaming that a snake had come killed you in your sleep and not even bothered to take or eat the body? Mad hysterics," lamented a new voice – Maud. Maud was Henrik's oldest "sister", and Gerard's second-in-command.
Gerard really did like her, for all he called her a harpy.
Henrik did look a bit sheepish at that. "Well, it probably wasn't the best way to let on I could speak to snakes, but at least the entire forest heard about it at once."
"Screaming that loud? I'm surprised they didn't hear on the continent!" Maud laughed. "A little birdie came today, with an envelope that had your name on it and some funny address about a tree with all the pets. I'm not sure it's properly yours, seeing the downright rude way they called your private residence 'smallest personal tree-hut', because really, tree-hut? And you're the only youngling in the whole forest that lives alone, so why should your dwelling be in proportion to your title? That goes against the whole of our principles."
Henrik, however, was in no mood to be teased. His arms were crossed, lip jutted out, and eyes dark and mistrusting.
"Oh, all right. But it really did have us worried a bit, using that dreadful name you were meant to put up with."
"I've told you before I don't mind being called Harry. It just didn't seem…ostentatious enough for royalty. Besides, it wasn't an old German name. And names are about honoring your heritage, so…ugh, I'm hopeless at explaining my reasoning as a four-year-old."
"I still can't believe they expect a halfway suitable answer to a question like that from a four-year-old, even a royal one," Gerard mumbled.
"Oh, I was three when they finally asked, having called me Henrik for all the life I could remember. But it took a year before I was really rationalizing it to death."
"Henrik…oh, fine, Harry, I've seen your essays, and if that's normal, your idea of rationalizing to death is really daunting. Have you been practicing that long? Is that why Helmuth, who studied it for four years at that dreadful "further learning" prison, can't do it half so well?" Maud was unbecomingly fond of her over-dramatized sarcasm.
"Helmuth's not a creature of reason. That's why he always loses at chess. He wants to learn healing, not rationalizing, so he won't do anything but."
"You were losing for a long time, up until you were about seven."
"I was a child. I didn't understand half the rules, and I wanted to go back to reading, where things were simpler and I could just imagine the rules."
"You've always been like that with games," Gerard sighed, joining in the discussion. "Disdainful until you master them, at which point you disdain everyone else."
"It's not disdain, and you can't stall me any longer – the letter's from Hogwarts, ja, Schwester?" he scowled at Maud.
"Ja, Henrik. From Hogwarts." She produced the letter with no small flourish – Maud had a tendency to do so. Instead of pulling it from her bag like a normal being would, she swirled her hands mystically until she had a sparkling whirlwind that POOFed the envelope into her hands, which she clapped together for dramatics and to keep it from floating off, just as another POOF (a sort of mushroom cloud of sparkling white dust, coupled with the noise as represented) was expelled from the bag.
"That's such a noisy, rude, and overtly flamboyant spell it doesn't bear repeating," Henrik glowered when the letter was in his hands, but he didn't mean it. Maud's overt flamboyancy was rather cheering, actually.
Mr. H. Potter,
Smallest personal tree-hut with the numerous animals,
Elf-forest,
Avon
He scanned the acceptance form quickly, uninterested in the formalities. "I don't know what we're going to do about writing a reply. Did the owl stick around?"
"For all Gerard calls them carrier pigeons, Johann's doves will be able to deliver your mail. I can understand why you'd like a more personalized pet to take with you…" Maud grimaced, realizing what she'd let on.
"I knew you'd read it before you dropped an anvil, Maud. I do know a seal-correction spell. Probably everyone but Gerard and I knew what was in it, anyway," Henrik sighed. Being a prince meant nothing about privacy. Everyone knew what was best for him except him. He was by no means pleased with it, but he was used to it, and mollified that this meant people cared about him. "You're right about the pet thing. I'd like to take my snake, but it says owl OR cat OR toad. I'm thinking it's either a dove – which, for wizards, does fall under the definition of owl on a Hogwarts advisory slip – or nothing at all. Bringing an owl, a caged owl that would like nothing less than to eat a small bird or my snake seems stupid."
"I wonder where they keep the birds, though," Gerard mused. "Ah, well. Logistics can be sorted out after the affirmatives and negatives. Channels, decorum, etc."
Henrik grinned. "Etcetera, indeed. Very different from the screaming lecture you just happened to overhear, and the very similar one delivered to you on proper filing of reports of relevance to the crown," he mused.
"Schließen Sie auf," came the muttered "plea" for silence. "Henrik, go back with Maud. Keep ready."
"Ready for what?" Henrik wanted to ask, but Maud was already pulling him close to her and doing her Poof-Out spell. All her spells had POOFing, even the useful ones.
Of course the "Royal Palace" was the same as always, but Maud was nervous. She instantly went to fetch more of the guard, informed Henrik to go to the throne room and stay put, and Poof-Outed the guard. Henrik warred between his inquisitive nature and his respect for Maud, and Maud won for the time being. He shifted himself soundlessly (princes don't POOF, he told Maud whenever she was offended by this) into the throne room. Once there, he took his letter and sat by his grandparents' feet, reading his letter. And if he leaned against Grandmamma in a child's expectation that her touch could make all monsters non-existent, well. He wasn't even eleven years old yet.
"Something wrong?" Grandpapa asked when his conversation with a Master Forager was over. Grandpapa didn't ask idle questions, and could tell easily when something was bothering Harry.
"Gerard heard something. Maud Poofed me back and returned with some of the guard. It's probably nothing. It's certainly been nothing every other time someone heard something and shifted – er, brought me home. Still." He made a non-committal gesture. "Besides, Maud read my letter already, and I knew if she had then you had, and I'd rather be with people who wouldn't taunt me, thank you very much," he said with no malice. "Not that Maud taunts, really," shrugged Henrik, returning to the supply list. "Are they sending someone, or do we have someone who knows where to go?" he asked apprehensively. "We probably could mail-order everything except the wand, I don't have a clue where to send that letter, and even if I did, I get the feeling wands need to choose you, not the other way 'round." Henrik realized he was babbling, which wasn't very princely, and closed his mouth.
King Ofen smiled at his grandson. "We do have someone for it, actually. Helmuth attended just before and after you were born, but most things should be the same. His vacation time's about up anyway, he'll take you to that – Diagon Alley place, for your things. And then he'll get back to the," he coughed.
"St. Mungo's special victims unit," Henrik reminded him, somewhat mischievously.
"I don't like losing my grandchildren to wand-sorcery anymore than I like losing my children to it," Grandpapa told Henrik seriously. "Be careful, princeling. I wish we had ordered That Wizard-Man to allow one of our guards with you, when you attended, but I suppose it's too late for that. You will have privacy, if I have to commit murder. It was important enough to you at three to ask politely to leave the crèche permanently. It was important enough to give you your own, fully self-sufficient apartments at eight. The fact that you could cook a gourmet meal at the time and I had no idea makes me see that I haven't been seeing you.
"What I saw was the mortal wizard-boy that took my daughter. But I'm also terribly fond of you, princeling. Geliebter," he insisted. "So be careful, and listen to Helmuth. He's not Jaeger, who I know you're terribly fond of, but he's practically your brother, and he knows his way about these fool mortals."
"Helmuth is my brother, as much as Jaeger, and I love him as much," Henrik said finally. "Naming patterns," he mumbled vaguely, appendix to a thought he hadn't voiced. "Mum and Da – I won't say I wouldn't like to have known them, at least, if not have them with me, but you've done a damn fine job of being my Grandpapa, which is all I could ever ask of you."
Grandmumma scooped him up in her arms and swirled him about like she had when he was a baby. "Don't swear, Geliebter," she smirked. "You're not doing such a wonderful job of being a child, which is all we meant to ask of you, but I suppose it came out wrong." She took a deep breath. "It's good to observe manners, naturally. But we don't expect you to bow and show princely courtesy. Those mortals don't need to know that you're royal. It might breed resentment. And, oh, this is turning into another manners lecture," she cried, disgusted. She held Henrik close instead.
"What I mean, Beliebter Prinz, is that even if you do mess up terribly, hate the school, have no talent for magic, or throw grievous insults in a teacher's face – I will be appalled at the last, but I will love you through anything. Even drastic lapses in judgment like killing or permanently harming someone, but I prefer to not have you do something so reprehensible to know you are fully, completely, unconditionally loved by every sentient and sane being in this woods."
Henrik smiled fully for his Grandmamma. "Ich liebe Sie auch, Oma." He pulled her close, too.
The Poof-In was heard even through the thick throne room door, as was the argument Maud had Poofed during. Gerard was trying desperately not to scream, but he really hated being Poofed, and it wasn't a Maud thing. He didn't like shifting much, either, or any of the instantaneous transportation afforded of elf-mage-craft(1). At least, he didn't like experiencing them, and certainly not in the middle of a "conversation" which appeared to have been largely about Poofing and why Gerard didn't enjoy it.
"--DY QUEASY WHEN YOU EFFING PULL THE GROUND OUT FROM UNDER ME, HIGHNESS, SO IF YOU EVER WANT TO HOLD AN EFFING BELT-KNIFE—bloody hell, Maud, can't you even warn a body? Now I'm going to be sick again." Henrik flinched sympathetically at the dry, retching sound that followed. "Apparently I've got nothing left, and just as well, as I'd rather it was on the forest floor instead of the palace floor."
Henrik opened the door timidly. Gerard looked distressed to a point near hysteria as well as completely disheveled. Maud's appearance was one befitting a warrior-princess, naturally, but she carried herself with a look of gaunt horror. "Mutti," she sobbed, flinging herself across the room and in her mother's arms like a toddler banshee who had scraped her knee.
"Meine Prinzessin, what's wrong?" Grandmamma asked, bewildered by the sudden regression of her daughter to childhood.
"The West – Bloody tree-killers," Gerard swore, and that was explanation enough. But for his screamed complaints the moment earlier, this was the only time Henrik had ever heard him swear. Either he'd so lost himself in the situation, he'd forgotten about his young charge's presence, or he was so angry he no longer cared about the sensitivity of a child's ears – not that Henrik's were all that sensitive, after years with Helmuth.
"Tree-killers?" Henrik pressed. It would be his forest, too, someday, and it was his place of residence, now."
"Muggle-Mortals who want to build a bloody shopping mall in our land," Gerard howled. "So they level the woods and don't even ask the trees or use them as timber or – or firewood," he said this word as if it were the worst curse of all. Even the least magical of elves could sustain a fire without so much as a twig from a tree.
Henrik could see his grandparents and sister were already going into shock, and Gerard was halfway to "stark, raving mad." He fluttered his hands inelegantly, the healing magic coming easily all the same. He had spent all his life getting normal bang-ups and more than four years of hols with Helmuth the Healer-in-Training, who'd practice all the time, he was so obsessed. Henrik was bound to pick some of it up.
This was complex and dangerous, but Helmuth had encouraged him to practice his affinity for help-mage-craft. Henrik carefully navigated the black tempest of rage that surrounded Gerard, going straight for the grayish semi-solid eye of the storm – fear. The corporeality of it said the fear was movable, but it was going to put up a fight, the color said something Henrik already knew – fear was both good and bad. It could galvanize one to action, but it could also paralyze his or her movement.
Henrik gave the column of gelatinous mess a few prods, and then an almighty heave. It shifted, and became white and granite-like again, with many-colored flecks. This meant Gerard was back to himself, mostly. The clouds turned a much lighter grey, which (though not altogether peaceful) signaled much improvement in and of itself.
He pulled his own consciousness back to his body. Maud was shaking him most violently, and shouting and slapping his face.
"Calm down, calm down," he said firmly, detaching his sister delicately. "I'm fine. And you really shouldn't be angry about that. I went to all this effort to make people not angry, not in that unhealthy, cancerous way that clouds judgment."
Gerard, meanwhile, had sat down suddenly, coughing a little and looking somewhat lost.
"Are you all right, Commander?" Maud asked in a strange voice, tight and formal and out of her mind with worry.
"Yes, Maud," Gerard said faintly. "Though you really needn't have Poofed me out so…upset. It didn't help matters at all. Isn't that true, Henrik?"
"Well, the black cloud of fury was a bad sign that probably had something to do with being angry, Poofing angry, and staying angry. But the column of half-liquid ooze that emanated fear was stuck between fearing tree-killers and fearing what Maud could do to you if she wanted. You were probably concrete on tree-killers before she Poofed you, reminding you that she can do all manner of drastic things if she felt it necessary. And though this bothers me, it is good you didn't stay concretely terrified of tree-killers, because I'd've had a rough time pulling you out. Mental marble is still difficult to manipulate with elf-mage-craft, so I'm terribly glad I didn't need to try."
Gerard nodded weakly.
"Are you going to fear my intentions and skill, now? Because I don't think I'd be able to bear it, Gerard, really."
"No. And I never will. Because it's really only Maud that strikes the fear of…well Maud into me," he half-smiled to his second in command. "You're a very terrifying woman, Maud."
"Thank you, Liebster," Maud replied.
Henrik grinned, but quickly returned to solemnity. "What will be done with the tree-killers?" he asked.
"More wards," Grandmamma said tiredly. "That's all we really can do, except have the young ones chain themselves to the fringe trees, really. Which isn't necessarily a bad idea," she added thoughtfully. "Henrik, why don't you organize that? I daresay even those barbaric Muggle-Mortals will refrain from chopping down a tree with an eleven-year-old tied to it."
"Ja, Oma," Henrik replied with a shallow bow. He quickly made his way to a ledge he could whistle from and be heard – fortunately, several of the guards' posts had bullhorns. He whistled loudly into one to call attention to the noise, and bellowed, "Tree-killers! Operation Tree-Hugger Delta, West!"
This meant young only for the first line of defense – the attack was serious, but the senior elves would be using magic to combat it behind the lines. No chains were brought out yet, they'd only have to carry them. Magical youths pulled those that weren't closer, assembling themselves in pairs and trios some hundred meters from the western edge of the woods. That was when the chains were summoned or created.
Henrik took the smallest child and an infant with him to the very front trees. The little girl was three, and the baby was five months old. Greta grasped his hand firmly, but calmly. She was steadying him with her own magic, he realized, and quickly told her it was alright, in the sort of "baby language" not many elves keep up with past the age of eight. Henrik always liked speaking (and writing, as there was a primitive pictogram method of this, too) with the other children, even if they were younger than him.
The baby, a boy with flaxen hair and pointed ears, was already old enough to halfway understand this act of consolation. He reached a pale, chubby hand to Henrik's face, clumsily smacking his chin. Henrik knew the boy would be a blacksmith or a swordsman instantly, and smiled sweetly at him.
"He oughtn't hit you," Greta said darkly.
"He'll learn respect early enough, doubtless. What matters now is saving our home." Greta was the one who chained them up, though Harry helped her into the cuffs.
The tree-killers didn't return until the next morning. Elves knew better than to complain of sleeping upright with their boy princeling having done the same. Greta clutched his hand again, this time truly afraid. Mortal-Muggles were unpredictable at best when it came to nature. At least Mortal-Wizards in general were content to leave the remainder of the forests as they were.
The tree-killers tried all manner of threats and distanced cajoling to get the elves to leave, earning only jibes for their troubles. But then a tired-looking man approached slowly, hands extended.
"Listen, I understand wildlife means a lot to you. It must, I guess. But please, send the little kids home. I've got a couple of my own, and I need to know they won't get caught up in stuff like this."
Henrik growled, disentangling himself. He kept the baby with him, though. "Stay," he told Greta. Stroking the baby's head absentmindedly, he approached.
"Obviously the sit-in isn't getting the point across properly. So. You, at least, seemed concerned for the children here. Does it occur to you, that hundreds of species of local wildlife might be just as concerned for their young? I understand your job is to clear away for this mall. But destroying thousands of habitats, thousands of innocent lives – just like those of this child, and of Greta over there and all the rest – and not even using the wood? There's a reason you're called tree-killer, sir. You want to make a shopping mall to appease the general populace of your town? You chop down part of the history of the world. Then you want to make a movie theatre, and chop down a little more. And then they want a sunglasses hut or something equally inane, and you continue to indulge, indulge, indulge, until there is nothing left of the forests, of their inhabitants, their populace, and all those voices are silenced. Humanity really is a plague. It's alright to help other people, as long as I'm really helping myself, or leaving the door open to do so.
"On the other side of the coin, it's alright to hurt other people, as long as it helps me. 'The ends justify the means,' to quote philosophy popular to some." Henrik liked Machiavelli's works, really, though he didn't believe in his rigid approach towards life. Still, there was no denying the Italian's genius.
"How old are you?" the man whispered. "You're quoting Machiavelli – what are you?"
"If nothing else, sir, I am the only one who speaks for those without voices you can understand," Henrik said softly. "I could name you most species of animal in that forest, and a good number of the plants. I've grown up exploring it. My grandparents grew up exploring it. All of their grandparents too," he swept a hand at the elves still chained to trees. "Why do you think we're so passionate? We want our children to do the same." Henrik stroked the infant's cheek once more, and walked back.
The worker, whatever his name was, was moved enough to turn also, and walk away. He grabbed the suit who wanted to build a mall, said many harsh things, and then left. Henrik may not have used a bullhorn, but everyone in his vicinity had heard just as easily as the elves who responded to the all-call.
And all of them left, too. One by one, workers dropped their things, spoke to the foreman and the owner, and left. Once all his crew had gone AWOL, the foreman couldn't see the wisdom in staying, either.
"I will get this shopping mall – guh?" the man broke off, dazed.
"The new wards must've kicked in," Henrik announced in German. "We can all go now." The suit wandered off in confusion, and the elves melted back into the forest and instantaneously transported themselves and anyone who needed assistance back to the general area of their domiciles. Henrik shifted back with Greta and the baby, both of whom he returned to their mothers before going to his Grandmamma.
"When I asked you to head up the defense, I did not mean it as a reason to test the new code system, or to spend the night standing up," the Queen told him firmly. Then she hugged him. "I could see you walk straight up to them as we reset the wards. Oh, my darling, you terrified me. Mein Prinz," she murmured, nuzzling the junction between Henrik's neck and shoulder. "We'll have to add to your achievements," she said, touching his cheekbone with long, delicate fingers.
Henrik scrunched up his nose. "The oils sting when they go in, and I don't like the needles," he complained reflexively.
"All successes are marked by suffering. The inks are supposed to sting, and we use conjured needles instead of a much simpler charm on purpose. It's not supposed to be torture, but it is a rite of passage, and those do tend to sting a bit. Humility, to submit to the artist, strength, to endure the procedure, and pride, to wear your suffering and victories on your face. Do I need to tell you this every time, or will you someday take it without complaint?" she asked with a wry smile.
"Someday," Henrik mumbled, but followed her silently to the Royal tattoo artist.
Elf tattoos are a matter of pride. Deaths in the family, learning a language, learning a weapon, surviving dangerous classes like dueling and etiquette, and (for ambassadors and royalty) successful negotiations were all tattoo-worthy events. A simple glamour hid them from view in the Mortal world, though if an elf's attention was strained enough, they would be visible.
Fritz was a jovial type; though the artist did occasionally gruesome work (Helmuth's survival of a plague he'd helped treat had sparked a small image of the plague-hospitals, with hundreds dying in a room meant for no more than fifty. For Henrik's first successfully persuasive argument against a Mortal-Muggle, he was tattooed just under his lips with a delicate spiral with leaves branching off in all directions – each miniscule leaf representing its species of tree.
"You saved the forest before you even turned eleven," Fritz smiled at him when he'd finished. "You're a very special little Halfling."
Henrik had hugged Fritz after he said this; he hadn't been called Halfling as a term of endearment since he was seven, and found that he missed it.
Once Avon was calm again, Helmuth took Henrik to London with a lot of rules involving "Don't." Don't touch anything, don't say anything in English, stick to new German, don't talk about Avon or elves, don't ask anyone questions except for Helmuth, and don't do any sort of magic at all.
An inquisitive child like Henrik found this unbearable, but endeavored to keep as quiet as possible. He knew Helmuth was just concerned that Henrik would be recognized as Harry Potter, the now world-famous "Boy-Who-Lived."
"Awkward questions and fame can wait until school. Your Headmaster has assured Mutti and Vater that you'll have your own room available, though you can stay with the other boys in your house if you'd like. Hogwarts does offer this to any parent who asks, actually, and about five or six students per year have their own room. Naturally, you'll use the same glamour I had to cover your face and ears, though I recommend you decide now on whether or not to show the scar."
Henrik had decided on "not," choosing to keep his appearance as unremarkable as possible.
Muggle London was new, but Diagon Alley was positively otherworldly. It was a sort of market-street, with dozens of shops all squeezed in beside each other. First, though, they had to go to Gringotts – well, the Northern European branch. Scandinavia, France, Germany, and a few other continental European countries used this branch also, according to Helmuth.
Henrik was taken to Ofen's vault, which was filled with gold, as befit a king. Elves often sold small crafts in Muggle settlements, and (since they rarely needed the proceeds) any profit went to the wizard vault. Helmuth told him that only a small portion was really needed to get him through seven years of school.
He only had three days until his train left, so Helmuth decided against taking him back to Avon, which had been considered. Henrik was glad he'd packed for ten months to begin with. His typical style of clothing was, thankfully, very similar to the Wizarding type, so he'd meet no questions over them.
Once the shopping was finished, he explored Diagon Alley thoroughly. Florean Fortescue's ice cream was divine, if oddly flavored, and he tried not to spend the entirety of his remaining vacation in Flourish and Blotts, instead reading his school-texts in his rooms when he ran out of things to do. He paid special attention to the content of 1001 Magical Herbs and Fungi, since some of the entries were unfamiliar, or listed different names or properties than he had been taught.
Helmuth brought him to Kings' Cross by way of the underground, and they both had a good long laugh at the name, with Henrik the crown-prince and Helmuth a prince himself. But then Helmuth told him seriously in old German (a sure sign he wasn't joking, after all the warnings he'd given Henry about speaking it) "I hope you never come to this place when you are king, Henrik, because that will mean that you have taken on a great responsibility decades early."
Overcome with emotion, Henrik hugged his brother and followed him through the barrier to the Hogwarts Express. Helmuth helped him load his trunk in the back, gave him a few more rules in old German, and then BANGed back to his flat in Wizard London.