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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The days that followed were a blur of discovery and quiet desperation.
Edmund threw himself into the Prince manor's library with the fervor of a man drowning. It wasn't a large collection—the Princes had never been bibliophiles—but what it lacked in size it made up for in age. Shelves of cracked leather spines lined the small study on the ground floor, their titles embossed in fading gold: *A Complete Guide to Advanced Potion Brewing*, *The Theory of Magical Transfiguration*, *A History of the Sacred Twenty-Eight*. Many of the books hadn't been opened in decades; they smelled of decay and forgotten knowledge.
He worked methodically. Each morning he descended the creaking stairs, lit the hearth with a match—he had no wand yet, and the system's silence on the matter was maddening—and pulled a volume from the shelf. He read until his eyes burned, taking notes on scraps of parchment with a quill that spattered ink like a dying animal. The system remained a small, pulsing icon at the edge of his vision, offering neither encouragement nor reward for his efforts. Not yet.
The housekeeper, an elderly witch named Mrs. Larch who came three times a week, found him on the second day hunched over *Magical Theory for Beginners*. She was a stout woman with iron-grey hair and a permanent expression of mild disapproval.
"Master Edmund," she said, setting down a tray of bread and cheese, "you'll ruin your eyes reading in this light. And those clothes—you've been wearing the same jacket since Tuesday."
He looked down at the grey wool, suddenly aware of the stale smell clinging to it. "I'll change."
"Hmph." She adjusted the curtains, letting in a sliver of pale autumn sunlight. "The solicitor's man came by. Said your school things need to be ordered. There's a list on the desk."
He had forgotten. The Hogwarts letter—he had found it on the writing desk the morning after he woke, a thick envelope of parchment bearing the Hogwarts crest in scarlet wax. It had been surreal, holding it in his hands. He had read the words so many times in his old life, on websites and in books, but seeing them addressed to *Mr. E. Prince, Prince Manor, Scottish Borders* made his chest tighten.
*Dear Mr. Prince,*
*We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...*
The list was there, too, tucked beneath the letter. He picked it up now, scanning the familiar items: three sets of plain work robes, one pointed hat, a wand, a cauldron, a set of brass scales, a telescope, a collection of textbooks. The names of the books sent a strange thrill through him—*The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1* by Miranda Goshawk, *A History of Magic* by Bathilda Bagshot, *Magical Theory* by Adalbert Waffling. Books he had read about, but never held.
He would need to go to Diagon Alley. The thought was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.
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He delayed it for another week.
He told himself he was being prudent. He needed to understand more about the world before stepping into it—the customs, the currency, the politics. He read every newspaper he could find in the manor, a stack of old *Daily Prophets* from the last year that Mrs. Larch had saved for kindling. Grindelwald's name appeared only twice, in small articles about "disturbances on the Continent." No one in Britain seemed alarmed. The Ministry was focused on goblin negotiations and a scandal involving a Werewolf Registry.
He also read about Phineas Nigellus Black. The Hogwarts headmaster was quoted in several articles, his tone disdainful and his opinions on Muggle-borns barely veiled. Edmund remembered the portrait in the original books, the snide remarks about his great-great-nephew Sirius. It was strange to think of the man as alive, breathing, walking the same corridors Edmund would walk in a few months.
*Hogwarts under Black,* he thought. *No wonder Dumbledore spent so much of his early career butting heads with him.*
The thought of Dumbledore brought a different kind of unease. The man was barely out of Hogwarts, a young wizard in his late teens, still years away from becoming the venerable Headmaster Edmund had grown up reading about. He was probably traveling now, or tending to his family in Godric's Hollow. The duel with Grindelwald was decades away. The Dumbledore of this era was not the wise, bearded figure of Edmund's memories—he was a young man carrying the weight of a sister's death and a friendship turned to ash.
Edmund wondered if their paths would ever cross. The system had said nothing about Dumbledore, but the thought lingered.
On the eighth day, he ran out of excuses.
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Mrs. Larch escorted him to the Floo connection in the manor's entrance hall. It was a grand, cold space with a high ceiling and a floor of worn flagstones. The hearth was enormous, big enough to roast a boar, but it had been years since a proper fire had burned there. Mrs. Larch knelt, tapped the stones with her wand—a short, dark thing of unremarkable wood—and green flames roared to life.
"Diagon Alley," she said briskly. "Wait for me at the Leaky Cauldron. I have my own shopping to do."
Edmund stared into the flames. He had never used Floo powder in his old life, because it wasn't real. But now it was, and the thought of stepping into a roaring fire made his palms sweat.
"Master Edmund," Mrs. Larch said, a note of impatience creeping into her voice. "It's perfectly safe. I've done it a thousand times."
He took a pinch of the glittering powder from the urn on the mantel. It was cool and coarse, like crushed glass. He stepped into the hearth, the flames licking at his boots but not burning, and threw the powder down.
"Diagon Alley!" he shouted, and the world spun.
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It was worse than any roller coaster. He was compressed, stretched, spun, his stomach left somewhere in the Scottish Borders while his body hurtled through a vortex of fireplaces. He closed his eyes and tried not to scream.
When he stumbled out into a stone hearth, he fell to his knees on a cold floor, gasping. A pair of worn boots appeared in front of him.
"Steady on, lad," said a gruff voice. "First time?"
He looked up. The boots belonged to a large man in a stained apron—Tom, the barman of the Leaky Cauldron, though Edmund only recognized him from descriptions. The pub was dim and quiet at this hour, only a few early patrons nursing drinks in the corners.
"First time," Edmund managed. He got to his feet, brushing soot from his jacket. "I'm here for school supplies."
"Ah, a Hogwarts student." Tom's face softened. "Well, welcome. The alley's through the back. Need anything, you just ask."
Edmund nodded, his throat tight, and made his way through the pub. The door to the courtyard was old wood, the brick wall beyond it unremarkable. He knew what came next—had read it a hundred times, watched it in movies—but knowing was not the same as doing. He raised the wand he didn't have, then lowered his hand, feeling foolish.
*Right. I don't have a wand yet. I need to tap the bricks with a wand.*
He looked around. The courtyard was empty. Tom was back inside. He was alone.
He walked to the wall, pressed his palm against the cold brick, and tried to push. Nothing. He tried to find the trigger brick—three up, two across, something like that—but they all looked identical. He stood there, frustration building, until a passing witch with a basket of mushrooms gave him a curious look.
"Lost, dear?" she asked.
"I just need to get into Diagon Alley," he said, trying to keep the desperation from his voice.
She smiled, tapped the correct brick with her wand, and the wall folded away with a familiar grinding of stone. Light and noise spilled through the gap—the bustle of the alley, the calls of vendors, the smell of something cooking.
"There you are," she said, and disappeared inside.
Edmund followed, stepping through the archway into a world he had only ever seen on a screen.
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