The letters began to arrive the next day.
The first was from Astrid Greengrass, written on pale blue parchment, her handwriting precise and careful.
*Edmund,*
*My father remembers your grandfather. He says the Princes were the finest potioneers of their generation, and that your family's healing draughts saved his mother's life when no one else could help. He would be pleased to meet you, if you are willing. We are at the manor for the rest of the summer. Perhaps you could visit?*
*—Astrid*
The second was from Arthur Merrythought, his handwriting as cheerful as ever.
*Edmund!*
*Grandmother says she knew your great-grandmother, and that she was the cleverest witch she ever met. She says if you want to know about the Princes, you should ask her. She's got stories that aren't in any book. Come visit before term starts?*
*—Arthur*
The third was from Abraxas Malfoy.
*Prince,*
*I recall our families had dealings in the past. My father says the debt was settled, but that the Malfoys do not forget favors. If you wish to discuss the matter further, you may call at Malfoy Manor. My father would be interested to meet the last Prince.*
*—A. Malfoy*
Edmund read the letters, then read them again. The doors he had opened were being answered. The alliances he had hoped to renew were stirring.
He wrote back to each of them, accepting their invitations, arranging visits for the weeks ahead. Then he sat back in his chair and looked around the library. The fire was low, the books were waiting, and the weight of his family's legacy pressed down on him like a stone.
He was the last Prince. But he was not alone.
---
The Greengrass manor sat in the heart of the Cotswolds, a sprawling estate of honey-colored stone and ancient oaks that had been in the family for longer than anyone could remember. Edmund's carriage wound up a long drive lined with flowering hedges, past gardens that had been cultivated for centuries, past a lake that reflected the summer sky, and stopped before a door that was opened before he could knock.
Astrid was waiting for him.
She looked different out of her Hogwarts robes—lighter, younger, her dark hair loose, her face relaxed in a way he had never seen at school. She smiled when she saw him, a real smile, not the careful expression she wore in the common room.
"You came," she said.
"I said I would."
She led him through the house, past rooms filled with portraits and books and the accumulated wealth of generations. The Greengrasses, Edmund saw, were not showy. Their wealth was in the land, in the gardens, in the quiet confidence of a family that had never needed to prove anything to anyone.
Astrid's father was waiting in the library. He was a tall man with kind eyes and hands that were stained with ink, and he rose when Edmund entered, his gaze measuring, assessing.
"Edmund Prince," he said. "I knew your grandfather. He saved my mother's life when she was dying of a fever that no one else could cure. I was a child then, but I remember the potion he brought, the way she sat up in bed the next morning, the way she laughed when she saw me crying at her bedside." He extended his hand. "The Greengrasses do not forget."
Edmund shook his hand. "I am honored, sir."
"The honor is mine." He gestured to a chair. "Sit. Tell me about yourself. Tell me what the last Prince intends to make of himself."
---
They talked for hours.
Edmund told him about Hogwarts, about his studies, about the professors who had guided him. He did not mention the system. He did not mention the school he was meant to build. He spoke of his interest in potions, in healing, in the old knowledge that his family had accumulated over centuries. Mr. Greengrass listened, nodding, asking questions, drawing him out with the skill of a man who had spent a lifetime in negotiations.
At the end of the afternoon, Mr. Greengrass rose and walked to a cabinet against the far wall. He opened it and removed a small box, its wood dark, its surface carved with the Greengrass crest.
"This was your grandfather's," he said, handing it to Edmund. "He left it with my mother, the night he saved her life. He said he would come back for it, but he never did. She kept it for him. After she died, I kept it for you."
Edmund opened the box. Inside, resting on a bed of faded velvet, was a ring. It was old, the silver tarnished, the stone—a deep emerald, cut in a shape he did not recognize—set in a band that was worn thin by years of use. He lifted it, and the stone caught the light.
"It was a Prince family heirloom," Mr. Greengrass said. "Your grandfather used it to focus his healing magic. My mother said he could cure wounds that no other healer could touch, and that the ring was the key." He paused. "It belongs to you now."
Edmund slipped the ring onto his finger. It was cold, colder than it should have been, and for a moment, he felt something stir in his chest—a warmth, a presence, a sense of something waking. Then it was gone.
"Thank you," he said.
Mr. Greengrass nodded. "The Princes were great once. They could be great again. If you are willing to do the work."
Edmund thought of the months behind him, the early mornings and late nights, the failures and the successes. He thought of the years ahead, the roadmap he had set for himself, the school he was meant to build.
"I am," he said.
---
The Malfoy manor was different.
It was not old, not in the way the Greengrass manor was old. It was new, built in the last century on land that had been purchased with gold from the family's investments. The drive was lined with peacocks, their white tails trailing in the gravel, their cries echoing across the lawns. The house itself was white marble, its columns gleaming, its windows reflecting the sun. Everything about it spoke of wealth, of ambition, of a family that had worked very hard to be seen as equal to the families that had been there for centuries.
Abraxas met him at the door, his face as impassive as it had been at Hogwarts, his robes as perfect as if he had been waiting for this moment all summer. He looked at Edmund, at the ring on his finger, at the way he held himself, and nodded once.
"My father is waiting."
He led Edmund through halls that were lined with portraits—Malfoys, all of them, their faces sharp, their eyes cold. They watched him as he passed, their expressions a study in controlled ambition. The study was at the end of a long corridor, its door open, its interior dark. Abraxas stopped at the threshold.
"He will see you alone."
Edmund stepped inside.
---
Abraxas Malfoy's father was not what he had expected.
He was younger than Mr. Greengrass, his hair dark, his face sharp, his eyes the same pale grey as his son's. He sat behind a desk that was covered in papers, and when Edmund entered, he did not rise. He simply looked at him, his gaze measuring, assessing, cataloging.
"Edmund Prince," he said. "The last of your line."
Edmund stood in the center of the room, his hands at his sides, and met the man's gaze. "Yes, sir."
"My son tells me you are at the top of your year. That you have distinguished yourself in Potions, Charms, Transfiguration. That the professors speak of you with something approaching respect."
Edmund said nothing.
Mr. Malfoy leaned back in his chair. "The Princes were great once. Healers, scholars, potioneers. Your grandfather was a man of considerable skill. My father spoke of him often." He paused. "But the Princes are not great now. You are a boy with a crumbling manor and a vault that is nearly empty. You have a seat on the Wizengamot that you cannot use for six years. You have a name that people remember, but only because they remember what it was, not what it is."
Edmund's hands tightened at his sides, but he did not speak.
"What do you want, Edmund Prince?"
It was the same question Mr. Greengrass had asked, but it was not asked with kindness. It was asked with the cold calculation of a man who had spent his life weighing the value of everyone he met.
"I want to learn," Edmund said. "I want to become the wizard my family was meant to be. I want to build something that will last."
Mr. Malfoy studied him for a long moment. Then he smiled—a thin, sharp smile that did not reach his eyes.
"Ambition," he said. "That is something I understand."
---