Professor Marchbanks was less restrained.
Charms had always been Edmund's strongest subject, the one where his early practice had given him an advantage, and by April of his second year, that advantage had grown into something more. He was casting spells beyond the second-year curriculum now—not in class, where Marchbanks kept them to the syllabus, but in the Room of Requirement, where he had been working through the advanced texts she had given him.
One afternoon, after he had successfully demonstrated a Cheering Charm that made a wooden bird sing for a full minute, Marchbanks called him to her desk.
"Mr. Prince," she said, "I have been teaching Charms at this school for thirty years. In that time, I have seen perhaps a dozen students who showed your level of aptitude at this age. Do you know what they had in common?"
Edmund shook his head.
"They all pushed too hard. They burned out before they reached their potential." She leaned forward. "You are talented, but talent without patience is a wildfire. It consumes everything in its path and leaves nothing behind. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Professor."
"I am not telling you to slow down. I am telling you to be careful." She handed him a small, leather-bound book. "This is a text on advanced charm theory. It is not taught until fifth year. Read it slowly. Do not try to master it all at once."
Edmund took the book, his fingers tracing the embossed title. *The Principles of Enchantment: A Theoretical Approach.*
"Thank you, Professor."
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you've finished your N.E.W.T.s without setting your hair on fire."
---
Professor Burke, predictably, said nothing.
But he had stopped looking at Edmund's cauldron with suspicion. That was enough.
One evening, after the Potions classroom had emptied, Burke called Edmund back. The old professor stood by the window, his gaunt face illuminated by the last light of the setting sun.
"The Prince family was known for its precision," Burke said, not turning around. "Not for flashy magic, not for power. For precision. Your grandfather could brew a Draught of Living Death that was indistinguishable from water. It took him forty years to achieve that level of mastery."
He turned. "You have the foundation. Do not rush the walls."
Edmund nodded. "I won't, Professor."
Burke's lips twitched. "See that you don't."
---
The milestone notification came on a Thursday night in late April of his second year.
Edmund was in the Room of Requirement, practicing a Patronus Charm. He had been trying to cast it for weeks, ever since he had read about it in *Practical Defence*. The book said it was advanced magic, beyond the reach of most students until fifth year. But Edmund had never been content to wait.
He focused on a memory—the first time he had successfully healed a creature, the kneazle in Healer Strout's class. The silver mist that emerged from his wand was thin, formless, barely there. But it was something. It was more than he had managed before.
He was about to try again when the system chimed.
**System Notification: Second Year Mastery Achieved**
*Congratulations, Edmund Prince. You have mastered the second-year curriculum at Hogwarts. This milestone has been achieved ahead of the projected timeline.*
*Total time since Hogwarts start: 1 year, 7 months.*
**Rewards:**
*- +200 XP*
*- Level Up! – Level 4 (28/800 XP)*
*- Skill Tree Unlocked: Third Year Studies*
*- Skill Tree Unlocked: Independent Research*
**New Objective: Achieve Third-Year Proficiency**
*You have demonstrated consistent, steady progress. To maintain your trajectory, the system recommends:*
*- Consolidate your mastery of second-year material through practice and review.*
*- Begin focused study of the third-year curriculum in your strongest subjects (Charms, Potions, Transfiguration).*
*- Continue self-study in Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures to prepare for third-year electives.*
*The acceleration phase will continue naturally. Do not force it. Trust the foundation you have built.*
Edmund stood in the center of the room, his wand at his side, and let the weight of the moment settle over him. He had done it. Second year mastered, with months to spare before the end of term. He was not the best in his year—Abraxas Malfoy still outperformed him in Transfiguration, and Astrid Greengrass had a natural gift for Arithmancy that he could not match. But he was ahead of the roadmap. The system had projected second-year mastery by the end of term; he had achieved it in April.
He sat in the chair by the window, the Room of Requirement silent around him, and stared at the interface. Level 4. Second year mastered. One year and seven months of work, of failure and frustration and the slow, grinding progress that had brought him here.
He was not where he wanted to be. The road ahead was long, and the milestones he had set for himself—third-year proficiency by the end of second year, O.W.L.s by the end of third, N.E.W.T.s by the end of fifth—were still far in the distance. But he had taken another step. The foundation was growing.
---
May arrived, and with it, the final push toward the end of the school year.
The second-year exams were approaching, and the students threw themselves into revision with a kind of desperate energy that only came at the end of a long year. The library was crowded, the common rooms filled with students testing each other on potion ingredients and Transfiguration theory. Edmund studied, but he did not cram. He had been studying for months, and the work that had consumed him in the early part of the year was now a habit, as natural as breathing.
He reviewed his notes, practiced the spells that would be on the practical exam, and helped Horace with the potions he was still struggling to master.
"Your Draught of Living Death is too purple," he said, leaning over Horace's cauldron in the Potions classroom, where Professor Burke had allowed them to practice after hours. "You're stirring too quickly. Slow down, let the essence of wormwood settle before you add the asphodel."
Horace looked at his cauldron, his face crestfallen. "I've been trying to get this right for weeks. My mother could brew this in her sleep. She says the Slughorn family has been brewing potions since before Hogwarts was founded."
Edmund had heard this before. Horace's family, it seemed, had been brewing potions since before everything. He did not say anything. He simply waited.
Horace sighed. "You're going to get Outstanding in everything, aren't you?"
"I don't know," Edmund said honestly. "Professor Wainwright doesn't give Outstandings to second years. He said so in September."
"He said most of us would never be truly good at Transfiguration. That's not the same thing." Horace stirred his potion, slower this time, watching the liquid shift from purple to a pale, promising lilac. "You're different, Edmund. You've been different since the beginning."
Edmund did not know what to say to that. He was different. He had a system that no one else had, a roadmap that no one else could see, a purpose that no one else would understand. But he was also a boy who had worked, who had failed, who had gotten up every morning and done the work again.
"Different doesn't mean better," he said. "It just means different."
Horace looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Maybe." He looked back at his cauldron, where the potion was now a perfect pale lilac. "But sometimes it does."
---