The Slytherin common room was not what Edmund had expected.
He had imagined something like the books described—a green-lit cavern beneath the lake, dark and foreboding, filled with the whispers of ambitious students plotting their rise to power. But the reality was more subtle. The common room was a long, low room with a vaulted ceiling, the walls lined with bookshelves and tapestries depicting the history of Slytherin house. The windows looked out into the depths of the lake, where the dark water shifted and stirred, and the light that filtered through was green and gold, casting the room in shades of shadow and emerald. A fire burned in a great stone hearth, and the furniture—deep sofas, armchairs, tables—was arranged in clusters that invited conversation or isolation, as one preferred.
It was beautiful, in a cold, austere way. Edmund could see why generations of Slytherins had called it home.
"First years," the prefect said—a tall girl with dark hair and the cold beauty of her family, a Black by the look of her. "Your dormitories are through those doors. Boys on the left, girls on the right. Your trunks have been brought up. Tomorrow, you will receive your schedules at breakfast. Good night."
She left. The first years stood in the common room for a moment, uncertain, before beginning to disperse.
---
Edmund found his dormitory—a small room with four beds, each draped in green and silver. His trunk was at the foot of one; he claimed it and sat on the bed, suddenly exhausted.
The other boys filed in. Cassius Warrington, who took the bed next to Edmund's. Horace Slughorn, who claimed the bed by the window. And Elias Crabbe, quiet and dark-haired, who took the remaining bed.
"Elias Crabbe," the boy said, when Edmund looked at him. "My father wanted me in Slytherin."
It was said with a shrug, as if it were inevitable. Edmund nodded. The Crabbe family was old, loyal to Slytherin, but in this era they were still respectable—not the brutish servants they would become under Voldemort, but solid, dependable wizards.
Cassius was already unpacking his trunk, laying out his robes with the care of someone who had been taught to value appearances. Horace was at the window, peering out into the dark water with a look of wonder. Elias sat on his bed, saying nothing.
Edmund placed his wand on the nightstand, his journal in the drawer, and lay back on the bed, staring at the canopy above him.
The system pulsed.
**New Long-term Objective: Establish Your Place**
*You have been sorted into Slytherin. This house values ambition, cunning, and resourcefulness. To succeed in your long-term goals, you must navigate its politics, build alliances, and earn respect.*
*Suggested Tasks:*
*- Achieve top marks in at least three subjects this term.*
*- Identify at least three potential allies within Slytherin.*
*- Learn the unwritten rules of your house.*
*Reward: +100 XP; Unlock Skill Tree: Social Cunning*
Edmund dismissed the interface and closed his eyes. Outside his window, the lake pressed against the glass, dark and deep. Somewhere above, the castle hummed with the quiet magic of a thousand years.
Tomorrow, classes would begin. Tomorrow, he would take the first real steps toward the future he had been promised.
But tonight, he let himself rest.
---
The Great Hall was already filling with students when the Slytherin first years arrived for breakfast. Edmund found a seat near the middle of the Slytherin table, where the first years had clustered. Astrid Greengrass was already there, a book open beside her plate. Evangeline Rosier sat with Corvus Lestrange, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. Abraxas Malfoy was watching the staff table with the intensity of a hawk.
Edmund helped himself to eggs and toast, watching the hall. The professors were filing in now, taking their places at the high table. He recognized Galatea Merrythought immediately—her iron-grey hair, her sharp eyes, the way she sat with the ease of someone who had been doing this for decades. Beside her was a severe-looking woman with silver spectacles and a stack of parchment. Further down, a young man with a distracted air was already sketching something on the tablecloth.
Headmaster Black sat at the center, his expression suggesting that breakfast was yet another indignity he was forced to endure.
---
A flutter of wings drew Edmund's attention. A school owl was making its way down the Slytherin table, dropping small parchment scrolls in front of each first year. Edmund caught his as it fell and unfolded it.
**HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY**
**First Year Timetable – Edmund Prince, Slytherin**
**Monday**
9:00 – 10:30: Transfiguration (Prof. Aldric Wainwright)
10:45 – 12:15: Charms (Prof. Minerva Marchbanks)
12:15 – 1:15: Lunch
1:15 – 2:45: Potions (Prof. Septimus Burke)
3:00 – 4:30: Herbology (Prof. Beatrix Foley)
9:00 – 10:30: Astronomy (Prof. Aurora Sinistra)
**Tuesday**
9:00 – 10:30: Defence Against the Dark Arts (Prof. Galatea Merrythought)
10:45 – 12:15: History of Magic (Prof. Cuthbert Binns)
12:15 – 1:15: Lunch
1:15 – 2:45: Magical Theory (Prof. Alistair Finch)
3:00 – 4:30: Study Period
The timetable continued, but Edmund stopped reading after the first two days. Seven core subjects. No electives in first year—that would come later. It was a full schedule, but manageable.
"It's a lot," Cassius said, leaning over to look at Edmund's schedule. "My father said they used to have even more. Divination and Alchemy were required for first years until the 1880s."
Edmund looked at him. "What do you mean, cut them back?"
Cassius shrugged. "There's only so many hours in a day. The Board of Governors decided that Divination was too unreliable to teach to first years, and Alchemy was too dangerous. So they moved them to third year and above."
Edmund filed that away. Even with subjects cut, the curriculum was still far more comprehensive than what he had expected. This was the Hogwarts of the golden age—a time when the wizarding world was prosperous, when families could afford to educate their children fully.
The morning bell rang. Edmund folded his timetable and slipped it into his robes, joining the stream of first years making their way toward their first class.
---
Transfiguration was on the first floor, a large, airy room with tall windows that looked out onto the grounds. The desks were arranged in neat rows, and at the front of the room stood a tall, thin man with silver hair and a face that seemed carved from old oak.
"Sit," he said, when they had all found places. His voice was dry, precise. "I am Professor Aldric Wainwright. I have been teaching Transfiguration at this school for forty-seven years. In that time, I have learned two things: first, that Transfiguration is the most precise and demanding branch of magic known to wizardkind; and second, that most of you will never be truly good at it."
He let the words hang in the air. Edmund saw Abraxas Malfoy stiffen slightly; saw Evangeline Rosier's perfect composure flicker.
"That is not an insult," Wainwright continued. "It is a statement of fact. Transfiguration requires a depth of understanding that most students do not possess and many will never develop. However, all of you will learn enough to be competent. And some of you—perhaps one or two in this room—will learn enough to be excellent."
He moved to the blackboard and began to write. "Transfiguration is the art of changing the form or appearance of an object. You will spend this term learning the first principle. By the end of the year, you will be able to transform a matchstick into a needle."
Edmund took careful notes. He had practiced this at home, but Wainwright's approach was different—more theoretical, more demanding. He would need to adapt.
---
Charms, after Transfiguration, was taught by Professor Minerva Marchbanks—a small, energetic woman with quick eyes and a voice that carried. Where Wainwright was dry and precise, Marchbanks was warm and encouraging. She had them practicing the *Lumos* charm within the first ten minutes, and by the end of the lesson, every student in the room could produce at least a flicker of light.
Edmund's *Lumos* was steady and bright—the result of months of practice—and Marchbanks noted it with a nod of approval.
"You've been practicing," she said, stopping by his desk. "Good. Most students come to Hogwarts having never cast a spell in their lives. You'll have an advantage, but don't let it make you lazy. Charms is a subject that rewards constant refinement."
Edmund nodded. He had no intention of getting lazy.
---
Potions was taught in the dungeons, a long, low room lined with ingredient cabinets and cauldron stations. The professor was a gaunt, sharp-featured wizard with dark hair streaked with grey and eyes that seemed to miss nothing.
"I am Professor Septimus Burke," he said, when they had all taken their places. His voice was quiet, but it carried to every corner of the room. "You are here because Potions is a required subject for all first years. Some of you will discover that you have a gift for it. Most of you will not. That is acceptable. What is not acceptable is carelessness."
He moved to the blackboard and began to write out the instructions for a simple Cure for Boils. "You will work in pairs. You will follow the instructions exactly. You will not deviate. Begin."
Edmund was paired with Horace Slughorn, who was already reaching for the dried nettles with the eagerness of a boy who had been waiting for this moment his whole life. Edmund focused on the precise slice of the root, his knife steady, his movements careful.
When the potion was finished, Burke came to inspect it. He lifted a sample to the light, sniffed it, and set it down without expression.
"Adequate," he said. "Mr. Slughorn, your nettles were crushed too coarsely. Mr. Prince, your root slicing was precise. Together, you produced a passable potion. Next time, do better."
Horace looked devastated. Edmund filed away the criticism: *do better.*
He would.
---