The first week at Hogwarts was a blur of new faces, new classrooms, and new expectations.
Edmund woke each morning before dawn, unable to sleep through the unfamiliar sounds of the castle—the creaking of the old stones, the distant murmur of the lake against the dungeon windows, the soft breathing of his dormitory mates. He lay in his bed, staring at the green-lit canopy above him, and tried to absorb everything he had learned the day before.
Transfiguration with Professor Wainwright demanded precision. The old professor did not believe in praise; he believed in correction, and he corrected everything. Wand angles, pronunciation, posture—nothing escaped his notice. Edmund's matchstick-to-needle transformation, which he had practiced at home for weeks, earned only a grunt and a muttered, "Acceptable. But your wrist is too stiff."
Charms with Professor Marchbanks was a relief after Wainwright's severity. Marchbanks was warm, encouraging, quick to praise and slow to criticize. She had noticed Edmund's progress—she noticed everything—and had begun to give him small challenges that pushed him slightly beyond the first-year curriculum.
Potions with Professor Burke was something else entirely. Burke did not praise. He did not encourage. He did not do anything that could be mistaken for kindness. But he had stopped criticizing Edmund's knife work, and that, in Burke's world, was the highest compliment he could give.
---
By the end of the first week, Edmund had established a routine.
He woke before the other boys, dressed in the grey half-light, and slipped out of the Slytherin common room before the first prefect had stirred. The corridors at this hour were his. He walked quickly to the library, where Madam Pince allowed him to sit in a small alcove near the window—not the Restricted Section, not yet, but a quiet corner where he could read without interruption.
He spent the early hours reviewing his notes, reading ahead in his textbooks, and writing in his journal. The system tracked his progress quietly, offering the occasional daily task—practice a spell for thirty minutes, read two chapters of *A History of Magic*, write a summary of the day's lessons.
**Daily Task Completed: Review Transfiguration Notes**
*Reward: +5 XP*
**XP:** 183 / 250
Small steps. But he was moving.
---
Classes filled the hours between breakfast and dinner. Transfiguration with Wainwright. Charms with Marchbanks. Potions with Burke. Defence Against the Dark Arts with Professor Merrythought, who had recognized him from his correspondence with Arthur and given him a knowing nod. Herbology with Professor Foley, who seemed to think that anyone who could tell a Fluxweed from a Knotgrass was worth her time. History of Magic with Professor Binns, whose voice was so monotonous that even the most diligent students struggled to stay awake. Astronomy with Professor Sinistra, who held their classes in the tallest tower at midnight.
Edmund threw himself into all of it. He took notes in every class, asked questions when he didn't understand, and practiced every spell until his wand hand ached. He was not the best in his year—that honor seemed to belong to Abraxas Malfoy in Transfiguration, to Astrid Greengrass in Charms, to Horace Slughorn in Potions—but he was not the worst either. He was somewhere in the middle, climbing slowly.
The system approved.
**Skill Progress – End of September**
Charms: Novice (28%)
Transfiguration: Novice (16%)
Potions: Novice (22%)
Defence Against the Dark Arts: Novice (10%)
Herbology: Novice (8%)
History of Magic: Novice (5%)
Astronomy: Novice (6%)
---
The Slytherin common room in the evenings was a different kind of classroom.
Edmund sat by the fire, ostensibly reading, but his ears were open. He listened to the older students talk about Quidditch, about Ministry politics, about the families that mattered and the families that didn't. He learned that the Blacks were at the height of their power, that the Malfoys were wealthy but still considered nouveau riche by the older families, that the Lestranges were dangerous and best avoided.
He learned the unwritten rules of his house: never show weakness, never ask for help, never admit you don't know something. The Slytherins respected power and success, and they despised anything that smelled of failure.
Edmund played the part. He kept his head down, did his work, and spoke only when spoken to. He was not invisible—his name alone made him noticeable—but he was unremarkable. A quiet Prince, the last of his line, probably not worth anyone's attention.
That was fine. He didn't want their attention. Not yet.
---
One evening in late September, Edmund found himself alone in the common room with Astrid Greengrass. The other students had gone to bed, and the fire had burned down to embers. She was sitting in the chair by the window, a book open in her lap, but she wasn't reading. She was watching the lake.
"You're always in the library," she said, without looking at him.
Edmund looked up from his notes. "I like to read."
"You like to hide." She turned to face him. "I've seen you. You watch everyone, but you never let anyone watch you."
He said nothing.
"My father says the Princes were great once. Healers. Scholars. He says your grandfather saved his mother's life." She paused. "He says the Princes stopped playing the game, and that's why they faded."
Edmund closed his book. "What game?"
"The game of families. Alliances. Marriages. Favors." She shrugged. "The Greengrasses are still playing. We're good at it. But we're not great. Not like the Blacks, not like the Malfoys. We survive."
She stood and walked toward the girls' dormitory. At the door, she paused.
"If you want to survive, you'll need allies. The Prince name still means something. Don't waste it."
She disappeared through the door. Edmund sat alone by the dying fire, her words echoing in his mind.
---
The next morning, Edmund received a letter. It was from Arthur Merrythought, written on Gryffindor parchment, the ink smudged in places as if he had been writing too fast.
*Edmund,*
*How are you finding Slytherin? Grandmother says the dungeons are cold but the common room is beautiful. She also says I should be careful about writing to you too often because the Slytherins might think I'm spying. Is that true? That seems ridiculous.*
*I'm liking Gryffindor. The common room is in a tower, which means a lot of stairs, but the view is amazing. My roommates are decent—a bit loud, but decent. I've already been challenged to a duel twice. I haven't accepted either time. Grandmother says dueling in the corridors is a good way to get expelled.*
*Write back when you can.*
*Arthur*
Edmund smiled and tucked the letter into his journal. He would write back tonight.
---
The days turned into weeks. October arrived, bringing colder weather and the first Quidditch match of the season. Edmund didn't care much for Quidditch—he had never been on a broom in his life—but he went to the match with his housemates because that was what Slytherins did.
The Slytherin team won, and the common room erupted in celebration. Edmund stood at the edge of the crowd, watching, learning. He saw Abraxas Malfoy surrounded by admirers. He saw Cassius Warrington shaking hands with the team's captain. He saw Horace Slughorn making notes in a small book—names, faces, connections.
Edmund filed it all away. The game of families. Alliances. Favors.
He was still learning the rules.
---
**System Notification: Milestone**
*First month at Hogwarts complete. All classes attended. All assignments submitted. Social integration: Minimal, but consistent with stealth objectives.*
*Reward: +25 XP*
**XP:** 208 / 250
**New Task Unlocked: Identify Three Potential Allies in Slytherin (0/3)**
Edmund dismissed the interface and climbed into bed. He had allies—Arthur in Gryffindor, perhaps Astrid in Slytherin—but the system wanted Slytherin allies specifically. People who could help him navigate the house's politics.
He thought about Cassius Warrington, who had been friendly without being pushy. He thought about Horace Slughorn, who seemed to know everyone. He thought about Astrid, who had warned him about the game.
Three names. Three possibilities.
He would start tomorrow.
---