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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Arthur's response came faster than usual, as if he had been waiting to write back.
*Edmund,*
*Grandmother says it happens more often than people think. She says the Book is old and no one really understands how it works. It favors strong magic, old families, children it decides are "worthy." She says she's been trying to get the Board to look into it for years, but they won't listen.*
*She also says you should be careful who you ask about this. Some families don't like talking about it. They think it's shameful, to be rejected. But she says it's not shameful. It's the Book that's wrong, not the children.*
*I'm glad you got the spell. See you in the summer?*
*—Arthur*
Edmund folded the letter and added it to his journal. Arthur's grandmother knew more. Maybe, when he got to Hogwarts, he could ask her himself. But that was months away.
For now, he had his daily tasks. His reading. His slow, steady climb.
It was enough.
---
The village of Hogsmeade in October was a painting come to life.
Edmund stepped out of the Three Broomsticks' fireplace—more gracefully this time, though he still stumbled on the hearthstone—and found himself in a world of amber and gold. The high street was cobbled, lined with shops whose windows glowed with warm candlelight against the grey afternoon. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the distant peaks of the Scottish Highlands were already dusted with the first snow of the season. The air smelled of woodsmoke, mulled mead, and something sweet from the Honeydukes a few doors down.
He had never seen anything like it. The Hogsmeade of the books had always seemed quaint, a picturesque village frozen in time. But here, in 1899, it was alive—truly alive—in a way the page could never capture. A witch in a wide-brimmed hat hurried past with a basket of apples. Two wizards argued outside the post office, their voices rising and falling in the crisp air. A group of children, younger than Edmund, chased each other around the village green, their laughter echoing off the stone walls.
"Edmund!"
He turned. Arthur Merrythought was waving from the door of the Three Broomsticks, a half-eaten pasty in one hand and a bright smile on his freckled face. He was dressed in robes that were slightly too large for him, the sleeves rolled up to free his hands.
"You made it! I was starting to think you'd gotten lost. Did you have trouble with the Floo? I always end up in the wrong fireplace when I use it. Last time I came out in the Hog's Head and the barman looked like he wanted to hex me."
Edmund found himself smiling. Arthur's enthusiasm was infectious. "No trouble. Just a bit of soot."
"Brilliant. Come on, Grandmother's waiting. She's made tea, which means biscuits, which means you're in for a treat."
---
He followed Arthur through the village, past shops he recognized from the books—Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, Dervish and Banges, the shuttered windows of what would one day be Zonko's Joke Shop—and up a narrow lane that led away from the high street. The houses here were older, set back from the road, with gardens that had gone wild with autumn. At the end of the lane, a small stone cottage stood beneath the shelter of a massive oak tree, its windows lit and its door painted a cheerful blue.
"This is Grandmother's," Arthur said, pushing open the gate. "She's lived here since before Father was born. Says she likes being close to the school, but not too close. Students, you know."
Edmund knew. Galatea Merrythought had been the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for decades—according to the books, she finally retired in the 1940s, after more than fifty years of teaching. She had taught generations of wizards, including Tom Riddle himself. And now, in 1899, she was already a fixture of Hogwarts.
The door opened before they could knock. The woman who stood in the doorway was not what Edmund had expected.
He had imagined someone ancient, wizened, a female version of Albus Dumbledore. But Galatea Merrythought was perhaps in her late fifties, with iron-grey hair pinned back from a face that was sharp and intelligent and utterly without pretense. Her robes were plain, her hands calloused, her eyes a pale blue that missed nothing.
"So," she said, looking Edmund up and down. "You're the Prince boy who's been reading Whitby."
Edmund felt suddenly very young. "Yes, Professor."
"Don't call me that. I get enough of that at school. Galatea will do." She stepped aside, ushering him in. "Arthur says you've been asking questions about the Book of Admittance. Good. Someone should. That old thing has been causing trouble for centuries, and no one at the Ministry wants to talk about it."
---
The cottage was larger inside than it appeared from the street, but not by much. The front room was crammed with books—stacked on tables, piled in corners, overflowing from shelves that ran from floor to ceiling. A fire crackled in the hearth, and on a low table near it, a tea service was laid out with a plate of biscuits that looked homemade.
Edmund took a seat on a worn velvet sofa, accepting a cup of tea that was strong and slightly bitter. Arthur dropped onto the cushion beside him, already reaching for a biscuit.
"So," Galatea said, settling into a high-backed chair opposite him. "You wrote to the Headmaster's office. Got a letter back from young Weasley, I hear."
"Yes," Edmund said carefully. "He said the Book writes every magical child's name."
Galatea snorted. "And I'm the Queen of Sheba. Phineas Black wouldn't know the truth if it bit him on his pointed nose. The Book writes names, yes. But not every name. And not every child whose name is written gets a letter."
Edmund leaned forward, his tea forgotten. "Why not?"
She studied him for a long moment, her pale eyes sharp. "You're young to be asking these questions."
"I'm curious," he said, which was true. "And I've been reading. The *Compendium* said the Book was enchanted by the Founders to record every magical child, but the numbers don't make sense. There are too few students at Hogwarts for the size of the wizarding population. And I found letters—old ones, from my family—that suggested some children were turned away."
---
Galatea's eyebrows rose. "You found the Rosier letters?"
"My mother's correspondence. She mentioned a cousin who was sent to Beauxbatons because Hogwarts overlooked her."
"Overlooked." Galatea's voice was dry. "That's a polite word for it. The truth is, the Book of Admittance is old. Older than Hogwarts, some say. It was here when the Founders built the school, and they incorporated it into their plans. But they didn't make it. No one knows who did."
She took a sip of tea, settling back in her chair. "The Book writes names, yes. But it writes them according to its own criteria. Criteria no one fully understands. It favors old families, strong magic, children it deems 'worthy.' Muggle-borns appear sometimes—the ones with exceptional power, or those whose magic manifests in a way the Book notices. But quiet magic, subtle magic, magic that grows slowly? The Book often misses it. And once a name is missed, it's rarely added later."
Edmund's mind raced. This was what he had suspected, but hearing it confirmed—from a Hogwarts professor, no less—was something else entirely. "So there are magical children in Britain who never receive a Hogwarts letter."
"More than you'd think. And more than the Ministry would like to admit." Galatea set down her cup. "Some of them are homeschooled, if their families have the means. Some are sent abroad, if they have the connections. Some are simply... forgotten. Their magic fades, or they learn to hide it, or they grow up thinking they're squibs when they're nothing of the sort."
She looked at him with something like approval. "You're a Prince. Old family, thinning line. The Book might have overlooked you, if your magic had been weaker. But it didn't. So here you are."
---
Edmund thought of the diary entry about Augustus, the great-great-uncle deemed "unsuitable for formal instruction." He thought of the cousin sent to Beauxbatons, of the families who chose to hide rather than fight. And he thought of his own parents, dead of dragon pox, leaving only him.
"Is there any effort to find these children?" he asked. "The ones the Book misses?"
Galatea's expression flickered—something between sympathy and frustration. "The Ministry doesn't see it as a problem. The pure-blood families who run the Wizengamot are quite happy with a system that favors their own. And the Muggle-borns who are overlooked? They don't know what they're missing. They live their lives as Muggles, never knowing they had magic at all."
She reached for a biscuit, biting into it with a crunch. "The Department of Magical Education does nothing. The Headmaster does nothing. Phineas Black is more concerned with keeping Muggle-borns *out* than with finding the ones the Book missed. And the professors who might care—well, we have our hands full teaching the ones who do arrive."
Arthur, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, spoke up. "Grandmother's been trying to change things for years. She writes to the Ministry, to the *Prophet*, to anyone who'll listen. No one does anything."
"They say the Book is infallible," Galatea said, with a bitterness that surprised Edmund. "They say the Founders knew what they were doing. They say that if the Book didn't write a name, the child wasn't meant to be a wizard." She laughed, a harsh sound. "Convenient, isn't it? That the system that benefits them also tells them it's divinely ordained."
---
The conversation turned to other things after that—lighter things, as if Galatea had said all she meant to say. She asked Edmund about his studies, about his wand, about his plans for Hogwarts. She tested him on the basic spells he had learned, nodding approvingly when he demonstrated *Lumos* and *Reparo* and a wobbly but functional *Wingardium Leviosa*.
"You've been practicing," she said. "Good. Too many students arrive thinking the summer before first year is for idleness. They fall behind and never catch up."
She showed him her library, which was even more extensive than it had appeared from the sofa. Books on Defence Against the Dark Arts, of course, but also texts on magical theory, on warding, on the history of magic in Britain. Edmund's eyes lingered on a shelf of books about ancient magical sites—the same subject that had interested him since the system's hint.
Galatea noticed. "Interested in old magic?"
"I've been reading about it," Edmund said carefully. "The system mentioned—I mean, I read about places where magic is stronger. Ley lines, ancient circles, that sort of thing."
She pulled a slim volume from the shelf, handing it to him. *The Old Ways: A Guide to Britain's Magical Places.* "It's a bit dry, but it's accurate. If you're interested in that sort of thing, there's a circle not far from here. Ancient, pre-druidic. The magic there is still strong, though the Ministry keeps it hidden from Muggles."
Edmund took the book, his heart beating faster. "Could I see it?"
"Perhaps, another day. It's a long walk, and the weather's turning." She glanced out the window, where the afternoon light was already fading. "You should be getting back before dark. Arthur, walk him to the Three Broomsticks."
---
The walk back through Hogsmeade was quieter than the walk out. Arthur seemed lost in thought, and Edmund was too busy processing everything he had learned to make conversation.
The Book of Admittance was not infallible. It was old, possibly pre-Hogwarts, and no one understood how it worked. It favored old bloodlines and strong magic, and it overlooked children whose magic was quiet or subtle or slow to develop. The Ministry did nothing about this. The Headmaster did nothing. Children grew up never knowing they were wizards.
And the system wanted him to build a school.
It made a terrible kind of sense. Hogwarts was not the inclusive institution the letters claimed. It was a gatekeeper, a filter, a way of sorting the worthy from the unworthy. The children who fell through the cracks had no other options—unless someone created one.
At the Three Broomsticks, Arthur stopped at the door. "Grandmother liked you," he said. "She doesn't like most people."
"I liked her too," Edmund said honestly.
"She says the Prince family used to be important. Potioneers, healers. She says your grandfather discovered a cure for something—I don't remember what. Before the family started to fade." Arthur scuffed his shoe on the cobblestones. "I think it's good you're asking questions. About the Book, I mean. Someone should."
Edmund nodded. "I'll write to you, after we start term."
"Do. We'll be in the same year. Maybe the same house, if you're lucky." Arthur grinned. "I'm hoping for Gryffindor. Grandmother was Ravenclaw, though. Says she values courage but she'd rather be right."
Edmund laughed. "I'll see you on the train."
He stepped into the fireplace, threw the powder, and called out the name of the Prince manor. The green flames roared, and the world spun.
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