Lunch was a blur of food and conversation, dinner was a longer, more formal affair, and in between, there were study periods, free periods, the hours that stretched between classes when Edmund could slip away to the library or the Room of Requirement or, once, to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where he stood at the boundary line and wondered what was inside.
He did not go in. He was not ready. But he stood there, in the cold November afternoon, and watched the shadows move between the trees, and thought about the things that lived there—the centaurs, the unicorns, the things that had been in the forest since before Hogwarts was built. He would go in, someday. He would learn what the forest had to teach. But not yet.
One evening, after a long day of classes and a longer evening of study, Edmund found himself in the common room with the other first years. The fire was high, the room warm, and for once, there was no homework pressing, no spells to practice, no secrets to uncover. He sat on a low sofa near the window, watching the lake shift beyond the glass, and let himself rest.
Astrid Greengrass was nearby, a book open in her lap, her face lit by the fire. She looked up when he sat down, her expression unreadable, and for a moment they were the only two people in the room.
"You've been avoiding the common room," she said.
Edmund shrugged. "I've been busy."
"I've noticed." She closed her book. "You're in the library every morning before breakfast. You're in the Room of Requirement every night after curfew."
He stiffened. "How do you know about the Room of Requirement?"
She smiled, a small, private thing. "I'm a Greengrass. We have our own secrets." She looked at him for a long moment, her dark eyes thoughtful. "You're trying to learn faster. More than the curriculum. More than any first year should be able to learn."
He said nothing.
"I'm not going to tell anyone," she said. "I'm curious, that's all. The Prince family has always been quiet. Scholars. Healers. No one expected the last Prince to be anything but another scholar, quietly fading away." She tilted her head. "But you're not fading, are you?"
Edmund met her eyes. "No."
She nodded slowly, as if he had confirmed something she had already suspected. "My mother died when I was seven. A potions accident. She was trying to brew something that hadn't been brewed in a hundred years. She wanted to be remembered for something more than her name." Astrid looked away, toward the fire. "I think about that sometimes. About what it means to build something that lasts."
Edmund did not know what to say. He had not expected this from her—this openness, this honesty. The Greengrasses were a neutral family, careful, strategic. They did not share their secrets.
"I want to build something," he said finally. "Something that will outlast me."
Astrid looked at him. Something passed between them—an understanding, perhaps, or a recognition. She did not ask what he wanted to build. She did not ask why.
"Be careful," she said. "The people who build things are the ones who attract attention. And attention, in this world, is not always safe."
She opened her book again, and the conversation was over.
---
That night, in the Room of Requirement, Edmund stood before the small bookshelf with the seven books he was not yet allowed to touch. He did not reach for them. He was not ready. But he stood there, his hand hovering over the first volume, and thought about what Astrid had said.
*The people who build things are the ones who attract attention.*
He was building something. He did not know what shape it would take, or when it would be finished, or if it would last beyond him. But he was building it, every day, in every hour of study, in every spell he learned, in every secret he uncovered. And one day, when he was ready, he would step out of the shadows and show the world what he had made.
But not yet. Not yet.
He turned away from the bookshelf and went back to his desk, where *The Hidden Ways* lay open to a chapter on the ley lines that ran beneath the Blackwood Valley. He had been reading about the valley for weeks, learning its history, its magic, its secrets. It was waiting for him. But he was not ready. Not yet.
He sat down, picked up his quill, and began to write.
---
December came to Hogwarts like a closing door.
The days grew shorter, the nights longer, and the cold that had been a distant threat in November became a presence that seeped through the castle walls, frosting the windows and turning the corridors into tunnels of breath and shadow. The lake froze solid, its surface a sheet of black glass that reflected the stars, and the Forbidden Forest stood silent under a blanket of snow that had not melted in weeks.
Edmund had been at Hogwarts for three months. Three months of early mornings and late nights, of classes and study periods, of the slow, grinding work of learning magic. He was not where he wanted to be—not yet—but he was no longer struggling to keep up. The spells that had required hours of practice in September now came after three or four attempts. The potions that had boiled over or turned the wrong color now brewed correctly more often than not. He was not the best in his year—that honor belonged to Horace Slughorn in Potions, to Astrid Greengrass in Arithmancy, to Abraxas Malfoy in Transfiguration—but he was no longer at the bottom.
The system tracked his progress with quiet patience.
**Current Progress: First Year Curriculum**
*Transfiguration: 45%*
*Charms: 52%*
*Potions: 48%*
*Defence Against the Dark Arts: 35%*
*Herbology: 40%*
*Arithmancy: 30%*
*Ancient Runes: 28%*
*Magical Theory: 42%*
*Flying: 55%*
*Estimated time to first-year mastery: 4-5 months.*
Four or five months. That put him at the end of April or the beginning of May. One or two months before the school year ended. Exactly where the roadmap had placed him.
He was not ahead. Not yet. But he was on track.
---