I hope to create an entire Series based on this.
This is Book 1 of hopefully a Four book Series.
This will be possible if you like the book and support it.
If by the time we reach 50 chapters, we reach the top 20 in various rankings, then I will confirm the Second book.
Hope you all like this. Do support.
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Sebastian Greengrass continued talking as the measuring tape finished its work—about Quidditch, about his father's work at the Ministry, about the inferiority of Muggle-borns—while Edmund nodded and made noncommittal noises. The girl, Daphne, said nothing, but once, when Sebastian wasn't looking, she caught Edmund's eye and rolled them.
Edmund almost laughed. So she was more interesting than she let on.
When he finally escaped Madam Malkin's, robes in hand, he let out a long breath. The encounter had been exhausting but instructive. This was the world he had to navigate: old families with old prejudices, children raised to believe in blood purity, and beneath it all, a simmering tension that would eventually explode into Grindelwald's war and then Voldemort's.
He needed allies. And he needed to be careful.
---
His next stop was Flourish and Blotts. The bookshop was as magnificent as he had imagined—towering shelves, ladders on wheels, and the scent of paper and leather that seemed to soak into his bones. He had a list of textbooks to collect, but he also wanted to browse. Knowledge was power, and the system had made clear that reading alone wouldn't be enough, but it was a start.
He was reaching for a copy of *Advanced Potion-Making*—not a first-year text, but he was curious—when a voice beside him said, "That's a bit ambitious for a first year."
He turned. A boy stood there, a few inches shorter than Edmund, with sandy hair and a face dotted with freckles. He was holding a copy of *Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them* and looking at Edmund with open curiosity.
"I was just looking," Edmund said.
"I'm not judging. I've already read half of *Magical Theory* and I'm only eleven." The boy stuck out his hand. "Arthur Merrythought. My grandmother teaches at Hogwarts. Defence Against the Dark Arts."
Edmund shook his hand, placing the name immediately. Galatea Merrythought was the Defence professor who taught at Hogwarts for decades, from before Dumbledore's time until she finally retired in the 1940s. This boy was her grandson.
"Edmund Prince," he said.
"Prince? The potions family?" Arthur's eyes lit up. "Brilliant! I'm rubbish at potions. Maybe you can help me when we're at school."
The directness was refreshing after Sebastian's posturing. "Maybe," Edmund said.
---
Arthur launched into a stream of chatter about the books he'd read, the creatures he hoped to see, the spells he'd tried at home ("only small ones, Grandmother says I mustn't until I have a proper wand"). He was enthusiastic, friendly, and clearly not concerned about blood status or family reputation. Edmund found himself relaxing.
When Arthur mentioned that he had already visited the site of the Quidditch World Cup with his grandmother, Edmund asked, "You've been to the Continent?"
"Just for the match. Grandmother says things are getting unpleasant over there. Grindelwald's followers, you know." Arthur's voice dropped. "She says we should be watching them carefully, but the Ministry doesn't want to hear it."
Edmund filed that away. Galatea Merrythought was paying attention to Grindelwald's rise, even if the Ministry wasn't. That could be useful.
They parted at the counter, Arthur promising to look for him on the Hogwarts Express. Edmund bought his textbooks and, on impulse, a slim volume on the history of Scottish magical sites. The system's hint echoed in his mind: *Look for places where magic sleeps beneath the earth.*
---
By the time he met Mrs. Larch at the Leaky Cauldron, his arms were full of parcels and his feet were aching. Perseus had ridden on his shoulder for most of the afternoon, occasionally nipping at his ear when she wanted attention.
"You've done well," Mrs. Larch said, eyeing his purchases. "Though I notice you didn't buy a petticoat for your dress robes."
"I forgot."
"Hmph." She took half the parcels from him and steered him toward the fireplace. "Next time, make a list."
As they prepared to Floo back, Edmund glanced one last time at the alley. The afternoon light had turned the cobblestones to gold, and the shop signs swayed in a breeze he couldn't feel. In the distance, he could see the white marble facade of Gringotts, the goblin guards standing motionless at its doors.
He had done it. He had walked the alley, bought his supplies, spoken to other children. He had a wand that sang in his hand and an owl that dozed on his shoulder. He was real now, in a way he hadn't been when he woke in the Prince manor.
The system interface flickered at the edge of his vision, but he dismissed it. There would be time for tasks and objectives later. Right now, he just wanted to get home.
---
Back at the manor, Edmund retreated to his room with the wand and the books. He closed the door, drew the curtains, and sat on the bed with Perseus perched on the headboard, watching him with unblinking eyes.
The system had given him tasks: practice three basic spells, bond with his familiar, and begin thinking about a site for his school. He opened *The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1* to the first charm: *Lumos*.
He pointed the wand, focused on the light, and whispered, **"Lumos."**
The tip flickered, sputtered, and glowed with a soft, silver light. It wasn't perfect—the light pulsed unevenly—but it was light. He had made light.
He sat there for a long time, watching the glow cast shadows on the ceiling, and let himself believe, for the first time, that he might actually do this. He might survive Hogwarts. He might learn enough, grow strong enough, to build the school the system demanded.
He might, against all odds, become a founder.
---
The next morning, he woke before dawn and began to study.
The days that followed fell into a rhythm. He would read in the mornings, practice spells in the afternoons in the overgrown garden, and spend his evenings with Perseus on his shoulder, walking the grounds of the Prince estate and thinking. The system tracked his progress obsessively.
**Skill Progress:**
- Charms: 18% (Practical application improving)
- Transfiguration: 12% (Still theoretical)
- Potions: 22% (Natural aptitude detected)
- Warding: 5% (Basic structures understood)
He tried *Lumos* until he could hold the light steady for an hour. He moved on to *Reparo*, mending broken flowerpots in the garden until the cracks disappeared without a trace. He attempted *Wingardium Leviosa* on a fallen branch, and after a week of frustration, the branch finally rose—unsteadily, wobbling—and hovered in the air for three seconds before crashing down.
The system rewarded him with a small chime.
**Task 4: Practice three basic spells – Complete!**
*Reward: +50 XP; Skill Tree: Structural Transfiguration unlocked (Basic).*
Structural Transfiguration. He had a feeling that would be useful for building a school.
---
He also made a point of reading the *Daily Prophet* whenever Mrs. Larch brought it. The news was a patchwork of the mundane and the troubling. A werewolf had been denied custody of his children; the Goblin Liaison Office was demanding new trade concessions; a wizard in Yorkshire had accidentally turned his neighbor's house into a giant pumpkin. And always, in small columns near the back, brief mentions of Grindelwald: *The International Confederation of Wizards has condemned the so-called "Revolutionary Movement" led by Gellert Grindelwald... An attack on a wizarding village in Bavaria is believed to be the work of Grindelwald's followers... The Ministry advises British witches and wizards to avoid travel to Central Europe.*
No one seemed to think the threat would reach Britain. Edmund knew better.
He began to keep a journal—a plain leather-bound notebook from the manor's study—where he wrote down everything he remembered about the coming decades. The dates of Grindelwald's rise and fall. The birth of Tom Riddle. The creation of Horcruxes. The names of Death Eaters and Order members. He wrote in a cramped, hurried script, as if the knowledge might vanish if he didn't capture it fast enough.
When he finished, he stared at the pages, then closed the book and hid it in the false bottom of his wardrobe. It was dangerous knowledge. If anyone found it, they would think him mad—or worse, they might believe him.
He needed to be careful.
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