The Prince manor had not changed in the eight months Edmund had been away. It was still cold, still crumbling, still wrapped in the kind of silence that settled into stone and stayed there. The thistle garden was overgrown, the fountain dry, the gate to the lane rusted shut. The rooms smelled of dust and lavender and the faint, sweet decay of things that had been left too long in the dark.
Edmund stood in the entrance hall, his trunk at his feet, Perseus on his shoulder, and felt the weight of the house settle over him. It was smaller than he remembered. Or perhaps he was larger.
Mrs. Larch had met him at the gate, her face creased with something that might have been relief or might have been surprise. She had not expected him to return different, and he had not expected her to notice. But she did. She looked at him—at the way he held himself, at the wand in his pocket, at the eyes that had seen more than a first year should see—and nodded once.
"You've grown," she said.
Edmund did not know how to answer that. He had grown. In ways she could not see and he could not explain.
---
The days that followed were quiet, but they were not empty.
Edmund had promised himself that he would rest, that he would let the summer pass without the desperate hunger that had driven him through the winter. But rest, he discovered, was not the same as idleness. He woke early, as he always did, and walked the grounds of the Prince estate, mapping the boundaries of a property he had never fully explored.
He found the old potions shed behind the manor, its shelves lined with jars of dried ingredients that had not been touched in decades. He found the family cemetery, a small plot behind the garden, where the Princes who had come before lay under stones so worn their names had faded to nothing. He found a locked room on the third floor that his key would not open, and he stood before its door for a long time, wondering what secrets it held.
He did not force it. Some doors, he was learning, opened when they were ready.
---
The first week of July, a letter arrived.
It was delivered by an eagle owl, a bird so large that it seemed to fill the window of the breakfast room, its golden eyes fixed on Edmund with the impatience of a creature accustomed to being obeyed. The letter was written on thick parchment, sealed with a crest he did not recognize—a stag's head, silver on green.
*Edmund Prince,*
*I am writing to inform you that the will of your late father, Alistair Prince, has been opened and reviewed in accordance with the laws of inheritance. As the last surviving heir of the House of Prince, you are now the sole beneficiary of the family estate, including all properties, vaults, and titles associated with the Prince name.*
*I will be calling upon you on the fifteenth of July to discuss the details of your inheritance and to advise you on the responsibilities that accompany your position. Please ensure that you are available.*
*Yours,*
*Elias Thornbury*
*Thornbury & Sons, Solicitors to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Prince*
Edmund read the letter twice. He had known, of course, that he was the last Prince. He had known that the manor was his, that the vault at Gringotts held enough gold to see him through Hogwarts. But a will? A title? Responsibilities?
He folded the letter and set it on the table. There was more to being a Prince than he had understood. It was time, he realized, to understand what that meant.
---
The fifteenth of July was bright and clear, the kind of summer day that made the Scottish Borders look almost welcoming. Mr. Thornbury arrived in a carriage that seemed too fine for the rutted lane, driven by a wizard in livery who looked uncomfortable in the country.
Edmund met him at the gate. Mr. Thornbury was as he remembered: thin, precise, his face a mask of professional neutrality. He looked at Edmund with the same assessing gaze he had worn at Gringotts, as if measuring him against some invisible standard.
"You've grown," he said, echoing Mrs. Larch. Then he nodded, as if the growth met with his approval, and followed Edmund into the manor.
---
They sat in the library, where a fire had been lit against the chill that clung to the old stone. Mr. Thornbury opened his case, a leather-bound thing that seemed to contain more parchment than its size should allow, and spread the contents across the table.
"Your father's will," he said, tapping a document sealed with the Prince crest—a cauldron, Edmund saw now, with a flame above it. "It was filed with the Ministry shortly after his death, but as you were a minor, it could not be executed until you had completed your first year at Hogwarts. The law requires that an heir be of sufficient understanding to manage their affairs. Your results, I am told, were exemplary."
Edmund said nothing.
"The will is straightforward. The manor, the grounds, and all properties associated with the Prince family pass to you, along with the contents of the family vault at Gringotts. There are also several smaller vaults—one in London, one in Edinburgh, one in Hogsmeade—that contain various family heirlooms and documents. These are now yours as well."
Mr. Thornbury slid a second document across the table. "There is also the matter of the family seat."
Edmund looked at the document. It was old, the parchment yellowed, the ink faded. At the top, in letters that had been stamped with gold, were the words: *Wizengamot Charter of Seats, Hereditary.*
"The House of Prince," Mr. Thornbury said, "holds a hereditary seat on the Wizengamot. It is one of the oldest seats in the body, granted by the Founders themselves to the families who supported the establishment of Hogwarts. Your grandfather held it. Your father held it, though he rarely attended. It now passes to you."
---
Edmund stared at the document. "I am eleven," he said.
Mr. Thornbury's lips twitched. "Indeed. The seat will be held in trust until you come of age—your seventeenth birthday, under current law. Until then, you may appoint a proxy to vote on your behalf, or you may choose to attend as an observer. Many heirs do the latter. It is an education in itself."
He paused, his eyes steady on Edmund. "There are families who would be very interested in your seat, Mr. Prince. The Wizengamot has grown smaller over the years, as families die out or lose interest. A seat is a valuable thing. There are those who would offer you a great deal for it."
Edmund's mind raced. He thought of the Malfoys, the Blacks, the Lestranges—families who had been building their power for centuries. He thought of Abraxas Malfoy's calculating eyes, of the way the older families circled each other, always watching, always waiting.
"I'm not selling it," he said.
Mr. Thornbury's expression did not change, but something in his posture relaxed. "That is your right. I would advise you, however, to consider carefully how you wish to exercise it. A seat on the Wizengamot is not simply a privilege. It is a responsibility. The families who hold seats are expected to attend, to vote, to represent the interests of their line. If you do not, others will vote in your absence, and the decisions they make will affect you whether you are there or not."
He gathered the documents, sliding them into a leather folder that he handed to Edmund. "These are copies. The originals are filed with the Ministry. You will need to visit Gringotts to confirm your access to the family vaults. I have arranged an appointment for next week."
He rose, straightening his robes. "You are the last Prince, Mr. Prince. That is a burden, but it is also an opportunity. The families who remember the Princes—and there are still some who do—will be watching to see what you make of yourself. Do not disappoint them."
---
After Mr. Thornbury left, Edmund sat in the library for a long time, the folder of documents in his hands. He was the heir to a family he barely knew, the holder of a seat he had not known existed, the last of a line that had been respected once and was now fading from memory.
The system pulsed.
**System Notification: Legacy Unlocked**
*You have discovered the full extent of your inheritance: properties, vaults, and a hereditary seat on the Wizengamot. These are resources that can be leveraged in pursuit of your long-term objectives.*
**New Long-term Objective: Consolidate Your Position**
*To build a school, you must first secure your foundation. The House of Prince is diminished but not forgotten. Restore its standing, renew its alliances, and establish yourself as a figure of consequence in the wizarding world.*
*Suggested Tasks:*
*- Visit Gringotts and inventory the family vaults.*
*- Identify at least three families with historical ties to the Princes and re-establish contact.*
*- Attend a session of the Wizengamot as an observer.*
*- Begin restoration of the Prince manor or other family properties.*
*Reward for completion: +500 XP; Unlock: Political Connections Skill Tree.*
Edmund read the notification, then dismissed it. There was work to do. But it was not the work he had expected when he returned to the manor. It was the work of an heir, not a student. The work of a family that had been waiting for someone to wake it from its long sleep.
He rose from his chair and walked to the window. The thistle garden was overgrown, the fountain dry, the gate rusted shut. But the sun was setting behind the hills, and the light that fell across the grounds was gold and green.
For the first time since he had woken in this house, he saw it not as a tomb, but as a place that could be made beautiful again.
---