Hi Everyone, This is my new fan-fic on my favorite book.
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.
____________________________
He woke to the smell of dust and old stone.
The ceiling above him was not his ceiling. It was vaulted, shadowed with beams of ancient oak, and somewhere in the corners a spider had spun a web thick as a dinner plate. The bed beneath him was vast—a four-poster carved with faded serpents and what might have been peacocks—and the sheets smelled of lavender and mothballs.
He blinked. His hands were small.
For a long moment he lay perfectly still, his mind a white noise of confusion. The last thing he remembered was his flat in London—his laptop open to a Harry Potter wiki page, a half-empty mug of tea growing cold, the rain against the window. He had been scrolling through articles about the Sacred Twenty-Eight, about obscure pure-blood families, about the Prince family.
*The Prince family.*
The thought struck him like a physical blow. Memories that were not his own rushed in: the sharp voice of a governess, the smell of potion ingredients drying in a cellar, a cold hall with a portrait of a woman who looked at him with distant eyes. His mother. No—*Edmund's* mother.
His name was Edmund Alistair Prince.
He sat up, gasping, and the movement sent a cascade of childish black hair into his eyes. The room spun. He gripped the carved post until his knuckles—small, pale, distinctly *ten-year-old* knuckles—ached.
"No," he whispered. "This can't be—"
But it was. The body was too small, the hands too thin, the scar on his left thumb (a kitchen accident when he was six, the memory supplied) too perfectly familiar. He knew this room. He knew the worn carpet, the brass bed warmer hanging by the cold hearth, the window that looked out onto a mist-shrouded garden where nothing grew but thistles and a single, stubborn rowan tree.
He was Edmund Prince. The last Prince. And he was ten years old.
---
He dressed in clothes laid out on a chest: grey wool trousers, a white shirt that smelled of fresh laundry, a dark jacket with silver buttons. There was no mirror, but when he caught his reflection in the dark glass of the window, he saw a pale, thin boy with dark eyes and hair that fell in a straight fringe. The face was unfamiliar, yet it moved when he moved.
He knew this world. He knew it better than the boy whose body he now inhabited ever had.
*The Princes.* One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Potioneers, healers, quietly respected—until the money ran thin and the family ran out. Edmund's father had died of dragon pox three years ago. His mother had followed a year later, worn down by grief and a weak constitution. The Prince line now consisted of a crumbling manor in the Scottish Borders, a vault at Gringotts with just enough gold to see him through Hogwarts, and a ten-year-old heir who had been raised by a succession of governesses and a solicitor who visited once a month.
*I'm a transmigrator. I died. Or fell asleep. Or something.*
He had read enough fanfiction to understand the concept, but the reality was a cold weight in his chest. His old life—his *real* life—was gone. His friends, his job, his small flat with the leaky radiator. Gone.
And in its place, a ten-year-old wizard in the last year of the nineteenth century.
He walked to the window and pressed his forehead against the cold glass. The garden below was overgrown, the fountain dry, the gate to the lane rusted shut. Beyond the lane, he knew, lay a village that had never heard of Harry Potter, because Harry Potter would not be born for another ninety years.
He did the math automatically. The date on the solicitor's letter on the writing desk read **October 12, 1899**. Albus Dumbledore had graduated from Hogwarts earlier that summer. Grindelwald was already rising in Europe, but the duel that would make Dumbledore famous was still decades away. Tom Riddle would not be born for another twenty-seven years.
And he, Edmund Prince, was nothing.
He let out a breath that fogged the glass. "Okay," he murmured. "I have time. I have knowledge. I have—"
*Something.*
The thought was not quite formed when the world shifted.
---
It began as a shimmer at the edge of his vision, like heat haze on a summer road. He turned, and the air in front of him coalesced into a pane of pale blue light. It was translucent, hovering at eye level, and it was filled with text.
**[FOUNDER'S LEGACY SYSTEM: INITIALIZATION]**
He stared.
The text flickered, then expanded.
**Welcome, Heir of the Prince Line.**
You have been chosen to inherit the Founder's Legacy. The ancient magic of school-founding has lain dormant for centuries, awaiting a soul with the knowledge to build anew and the will to protect the generations to come.
**Your objective: Establish a school of witchcraft and wizardry worthy of the old traditions, yet forged for the ages ahead.**
*This task will require resources, allies, and mastery of magics both common and forgotten. The System will guide you.*
**Initializing Profile...**
His heart was pounding. He reached out to touch the light, and his fingers passed through it without resistance.
"This is..." He stopped. Swallowed. "This is my golden finger."
In the fanfics he had read, transmigrators always got something. A system, a cheat, a special ability. He had never quite believed he would be one of them, but here it was. A system. A *founder's* system.
He read on.
**PROFILE**
**Name:** Edmund Alistair Prince
**Age:** 10
**Blood Status:** Pure-blood (Prince Family)
**Title:** Last Heir
**Level:** 1 (0 XP)
**SKILL TREES (LOCKED):**
- Warding
- Magical Architecture
- Ancient Runes
- Structural Transfiguration
- Ley Line Manipulation
- Founder's Magic
**CURRENT OBJECTIVE:**
**First Steps** – Prepare for your first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
**Task 1:** Acquire a wand (0/1)
**Task 2:** Achieve a passing knowledge of at least three core subjects (Charms, Transfiguration, Potions) before arrival.
**Reward:** Unlock Skill Tree: Warding (Basic)
---
He read the screen twice, three times. The words did not change.
A school. The system wanted him to found a school.
A laugh escaped him—half hysterical, half something else. He was a ten-year-old orphan in a world that was about to be torn apart by Grindelwald and then Voldemort, and the universe wanted him to build a *school*.
But as he stood there, staring at the pale blue interface, a different feeling crept in. Not fear. Not panic.
*Purpose.*
He knew what was coming. He knew the wars, the deaths, the way Hogwarts would be compromised by politics and prejudice and finally occupied by Death Eaters. He knew that the pure-blood families he was now part of would fracture into monsters and martyrs. He knew that the Prince name would die with a half-blood boy named Severus Snape, who had not yet been born.
But what if he changed that? What if he built something new? A school that was a haven, not a fortress. A school that taught magic without blood politics, that protected its students from the darkness gathering on the horizon.
He looked at the screen again.
**[TASK 1: Acquire a wand. (0/1)]**
He had no wand. He was ten, and the Prince family wand—his father's—had been buried with him. He would need to buy one. That meant going to Diagon Alley. That meant facing the wizarding world for the first time in this new body.
He took a breath. Another.
"Okay," he said aloud. "One step at a time."
The interface flickered, as if in approval, and faded to a small, unobtrusive icon at the corner of his vision. He could summon it again with a thought.
He turned away from the window and looked around the room with new eyes. The dusty books on the shelf—his father's old textbooks, perhaps. The wardrobe that might hold a set of robes. The locked drawer in the desk that contained, he now remembered, the key to the Prince vault at Gringotts.
He had work to do.
But for the first time since waking, he smiled.
---