The first faint rays of the January sun crept into the Slytherin common room, casting pale slivers of light across the lake-darkened windows. The fire had burned down to embers, and the green glow from the lake beyond the glass shifted lazily across the stone floor. Edmund sat alone in the high-backed chair by the hearth, a cup of cold tea forgotten beside him. The parchment in his hands felt heavier than it should, the formal seals of the Wizengamot pressing into his palms.
He had read it three times already, and still, the words seemed foreign.
*By the authority vested in the Wizengamot Council, and by the ancient laws of succession, Edmund Alistair Prince is hereby recognized as the Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Prince, with all rights, privileges, and responsibilities appertaining thereto.*
Lord Prince. Not the last heir. Not the boy in the crumbling manor. Lord Prince.
The letter went on to detail the confirmation of his hereditary seat—a position that had lain dormant for nearly a decade, gathering dust in the annals of the Ministry. It was more than a title. It was a summons to a world he had only glimpsed from the visitors' gallery, a world of power and obligation that would now demand his attention. But the letter also made clear that his active duties would begin after his formal education concluded. Until then, he could appoint a proxy to vote on his behalf, or simply observe. His first obligation would be to complete his N.E.W.T.s and the Triwizard Tournament.
He traced the silver embossing with his thumb, feeling the raised edges of the Wizengamot crest—a shield and wand, encircled by runes older than the Ministry itself. A smaller document slipped out, landing face-up on the table beside him.
---
**THE NOBLE AND MOST ANCIENT HOUSE OF PRINCE**
**Rights, Privileges, and Responsibilities of the Lord**
**Rights & Privileges:**
- *Hereditary seat on the Wizengamot, with full voting rights, to be exercised in person or by proxy.*
- *Right to introduce legislation and petition the Council directly.*
- *Exemption from certain Ministry regulations regarding magical residence and property holdings.*
- *Right to carry a wand in all Ministry-controlled spaces.*
- *Privilege of receiving advance copies of the Wizengamot agenda and supporting documents.*
- *Authority to appoint a proxy to vote on behalf of the House of Prince.*
- *Access to the Wizengamot Library and Archives, including restricted sections.*
- *Right to petition for an audience with the Minister of Magic without intermediary.*
**Responsibilities:**
- *Attendance at a minimum of three Wizengamot sessions per year (beginning the year after Hogwarts graduation).*
- *Maintenance of the family estate and properties to a standard befitting the noble house.*
- *Contribution to the Wizengamot's charitable fund.*
- *Oversight of any family-held magical artifacts, with annual reporting to the Department of Mysteries.*
- *Participation in the Wizengamot's rotation for emergency sessions.*
- *Adherence to the Code of Conduct for Noble Houses, including prohibitions on dark magic and blood-status discrimination.*
---
Edmund read the list twice. The rights were substantial—more than he had imagined. A seat on the Wizengamot, the right to introduce legislation, access to restricted archives. But the responsibilities were equally weighty. Maintenance of the manor, charitable contributions, artifact oversight. And the Code of Conduct—prohibitions on dark magic and blood-status discrimination. He had not known such a code existed.
But the most important line was the one that deferred his active duties until after graduation. He was still a student. The tournament was still ongoing. The third task was only weeks away—the second had been in January, the third in February, then the fourth in March, the fifth in April, and the final in May. He could not afford distractions. His title would wait.
He set the document down and leaned back in his chair. The common room was still empty. His friends were asleep. The castle was quiet. He was alone with the weight of his new title.
---
The morning came slowly. Students began to drift into the common room, their voices low, their faces still heavy with sleep. Cassius was the first of Edmund's friends to appear, rubbing his eyes, his hair sticking up in every direction.
"You're up early," he said, dropping onto the sofa across from Edmund.
"I couldn't sleep."
Cassius glanced at the parchment on the table. "What's that?"
Edmund hesitated. Then he handed it over. Cassius read it in silence, his eyes widening, his mouth opening and closing.
"Lord Prince," he said finally. "You're a lord. You're on the Wizengamot."
"It seems so."
"But you're still in school. You're still in the tournament."
"The duties start after graduation. Until then, I can appoint a proxy or just observe."
Cassius shook his head. "My father is going to lose his mind. He's been trying to get a seat for years. And you just—" He gestured vaguely. "—inherit one."
"I didn't inherit it. I was born with it. There's a difference."
Cassius handed the parchment back. "You're seventeen. You're still in school. And you have a seat on the Wizengamot. That's insane."
Edmund tucked the documents into his robes. "It's also a responsibility. One I can't fully take on until after Hogwarts. But I need to start thinking about it."
Cassius was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You'll figure it out. You always do."
---
The news spread quickly. Arthur found them at breakfast, sliding onto the bench beside Edmund, his face bright with curiosity.
"I heard something," he said, lowering his voice. "About you. From my grandmother."
Edmund sighed. "News travels fast."
"Grandmother knows everything. She says you're the youngest lord to take a seat in over a century. She says the old families are watching you. The Blacks, the Malfoys, the Lestranges." Arthur paused. "She says you should be careful."
"Careful of what?"
"Careful of them. They'll want to use you. Your vote, your influence, your seat. They'll try to pull you into their alliances, their feuds. She says you need to decide whose side you're on."
Edmund thought about the Wizengamot, about the old families who had been playing politics for centuries. He was not interested in their games. He was interested in the Register, in the children, in the school he was trying to build.
"I'm on my own side," he said.
Arthur nodded slowly. "That's what Grandmother said you'd say."
---
Katerina Volkov found him in the library later that morning. Her sharp grey eyes gleamed with curiosity.
"A lord," she said. "At Durmstrang, we do not have such titles. We have rank, earned by combat. But this—" She gestured at him. "—this is different."
"It's just a title. I can't even use it fully until after graduation."
"No. It is power, even dormant." She sat down across from him. "At Durmstrang, we respect power. We respect those who wield it wisely. Do not waste this, Edmund Prince."
She left. Edmund stared after her, her words echoing in his mind. *Do not waste this.*
---
Colette approached him after lunch. She was more subtle than Katerina, her questions softer, her interest more personal.
"Does this change things for you?" she asked, as they walked along the frozen lake.
"Everything," Edmund said. "And nothing. The duties don't begin until after Hogwarts. For now, I'm still just a student."
"But you are thinking about it. About what comes after."
"Yes."
Colette nodded. "At Beauxbatons, we are taught that power is a burden. That those who seek it are unworthy, and those who are given it must prove themselves worthy." She looked at him. "You are worthy, I think. But you must prove it."
"How?"
"By using your power for something greater than yourself." She smiled. "Your Register, perhaps. The children you want to find."
Edmund had not told her about the Register. He had not told anyone except his closest friends. But Colette had guessed, or deduced, or simply understood.
"I will," he said.
"I know."
---
That evening, the champions were summoned to Professor Marchbanks's office. The second task was complete, and the scores were official. Edmund was in the lead with twenty points. Dolohov had fifteen, Colette fourteen.
"The third task will take place on the fifteenth of February," Marchbanks said. "You will receive the instructions on the morning of the task. No clues, no hints. You must be prepared for anything."
Edmund nodded. He had expected nothing less.
---
The days after the second task settled into a rhythm. Edmund attended his classes, studied for his N.E.W.T.s, practiced his spells. The tournament was ongoing, but there were weeks before the next task. He had time. He used it to think.
He thought about the title. Lord Prince. It felt strange, heavy, like a cloak that did not quite fit. He had grown up in the shadow of the Prince name, had watched it fade, had felt the weight of being the last. Now he was expected to restore it. To build something that would outlast him. The school, the Register, the children—they were all part of that.
And there was something else. The Chamber of Secrets. He had the key. Parseltongue. He had not used it yet. He had been afraid, or busy, or simply not ready. But the tournament was ongoing, and his title was secured, and the future was waiting. There was no reason to delay.
---
On a cold, clear night in the third week of January, Edmund decided it was time.
He waited until the common room was empty, until his friends had gone to bed, until the castle was silent. Then he slipped out of the dormitory, his wand in his hand, the ring warm on his finger.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor, passed the sleeping suits of armor, and stopped before a forgotten corner near the girl's lavatory. The wall was unremarkable—plain stone, like any other. But he could feel it now, the ancient magic behind it, pulsing faintly, waiting.
He took a breath. Then he spoke.
The words came easily, naturally, as if he had always known them. Parseltongue flowed from his tongue, hissing and sibilant, and the wall began to shift. Stone ground against stone, and an entrance appeared—dark, narrow, descending into the depths of the castle.
Edmund stepped inside.
---
The passage was cold, damp, and smelled of earth and old magic. Torches flared to life as he walked, their flames green and flickering, casting long shadows on the walls. He descended deeper, the stairs winding down, the air growing heavier. The ring on his finger pulsed with a warmth that seemed to grow stronger with every step.
He reached the bottom. A massive stone door stood before him, carved with serpents, their eyes gleaming with emerald light. He spoke again, and the door slid open.
The Chamber of Secrets was vast, far larger than he had imagined. Columns rose into darkness, each carved with serpents, their bodies winding around the stone. The floor was smooth, worn by centuries. The air was cold, still, ancient. And at the far end of the chamber, a statue. Salazar Slytherin. His face was stern, his eyes cold, his stone robes flowing around him.
The statue was enormous, towering above Edmund. And there, at the base, was the opening—the mouth of Salazar Slytherin, carved wide, leading into darkness. That was where the basilisk slept. Edmund knew it. He could feel it. A presence, ancient and powerful, slumbering within the stone.
He walked forward slowly, his footsteps echoing. The ring pulsed. He could feel the basilisk's presence—a deep, ancient magic, sleeping but not dead. It was waiting. For what, he did not know.
He stopped at the base of the statue and looked up. The open mouth of Salazar Slytherin loomed above him, dark and silent. He could speak the words. He could call the basilisk. But he did not.
He was not afraid. But he was cautious. He had no desire to wake the creature. He had no desire to die. He was not ready. He did not know what the basilisk would do. He did not know if he could control it. He did not know if it would obey him, or if it would turn on him.
He stood there for a long moment, his heart pounding, his mind racing. Then he turned and walked back toward the entrance.
The door closed behind him. The passage darkened. He climbed the stairs, emerged into the corridor, and spoke the words that sealed the entrance. The wall returned to stone.
He stood there for a long moment, his breath misting in the cold air. He had done it. He had entered the Chamber of Secrets. He had seen it with his own eyes. And he had left it untouched.
He would return. When he was ready. When he was prepared. When he knew what he was looking for.
---
He walked back to the Slytherin common room, the ring warm on his finger, the weight of the night pressing on him. He had a title now. He had a seat on the Wizengamot. He had the key to the oldest secrets in Hogwarts. And he had the tournament, and the Register, and the school he was trying to build.
He was seventeen years old. He had time. But he was running out of it.
---
The next morning, he woke to find a letter on his nightstand. It was from Mr. Thornbury, confirming the arrangements for his proxy. Edmund read it, set it aside, and went to breakfast.
The day was ordinary. Classes, meals, study. He walked with his friends, talked with Katerina, listened to Colette's stories of Beauxbatons. The tournament was in the background, the next task looming, but not yet close. He had time.
He used it to think about the Chamber. About the basilisk. About what he would do when he returned.
---