Edmund lay in his bed that night, the canopy above him dark, the sound of the lake pressing against the window, and thought about the months ahead. He would return to the Prince manor, to the cold rooms and the overgrown garden, to the silence that had been his companion before Hogwarts. But he would not be the same boy who had left. He had spells to practice, books to read, work to do. And in the fall, he would return to Hogwarts for his third year, and the work would begin again.
The system pulsed.
**End of Year Report**
**Name:** Edmund Alistair Prince
**Year:** Second
**House:** Slytherin
**Final Results:**
- Transfiguration: Outstanding
- Charms: Outstanding
- Potions: Outstanding
- Defence Against the Dark Arts: Outstanding
- Herbology: Exceeds Expectations
- History of Magic: Exceeds Expectations
- Astronomy: Exceeds Expectations
- Ancient Runes: Exceeds Expectations
- Care of Magical Creatures: Exceeds Expectations
**Level:** 4
**XP:** 328 / 800
**Roadmap Status:** Ahead of schedule. Second-year mastery achieved. Third-year studies initiated. Third-year proficiency in Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration projected by mid-third year.
**Recommendation for Summer:** Continue self-study in Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions. Begin reading on Healing fundamentals as preparation for third-year electives. Rest. You have earned it.
Edmund closed the interface and let his eyes drift shut. The train would leave in the morning, and he would go home, and the summer would pass, and he would return. But for now, he was here, in the castle that had become his home, and he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
He slept, and dreamed of the work that was to come.
---
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 looked at him—at the way he held himself, at the wand in his pocket, at the eyes that had seen more than a second 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 did not force anything. Some doors, he was learning, opened when they were ready.
The first week of July, a letter arrived from Professor Marchbanks.
*Mr. Prince,*
*I am writing to confirm your course selections for third year. You have indicated that you wish to continue with Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures as your electives. I have also noted your request to add Arithmancy and Alchemy to your schedule. This is an unusually heavy course load. I trust you know what you are doing.*
*Your third-year timetable will be waiting when you return. I expect you to use the rest of your summer wisely. You will need the rest.*
*Yours,*
*Minerva Marchbanks*
*Deputy Headmistress*
Edmund folded the letter and placed it in his journal. Four electives, plus the core subjects. It would be a heavy load, but he was ready.
---
The second week of July, a letter arrived from a different source.
It was delivered by an eagle owl, a bird so large that it seemed to fill the window of the breakfast room. The letter was written on thick parchment, sealed with a crest he did not recognize—a serpent coiled around a staff, the symbol of a healer.
*Edmund Prince,*
*My name is Miriam Strout. I am a healer at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I have been informed of your interest in healing magic, and of your family's history as healers. I would like to invite you to visit St. Mungo's during your summer break. I believe you would find the experience valuable.*
*If you are interested, please send a reply by return owl. I will arrange a tour.*
*Yours,*
*Healer Miriam Strout*
Edmund read the letter twice. St. Mungo's. He had read about it, had dreamed of seeing it, but he had never expected an invitation. He wrote back immediately, accepting.
---
The visit to St. Mungo's was arranged for the first week of August.
Edmund traveled to London alone, his wand in his pocket, the ring on his finger. The hospital was hidden in an old department store, its entrance invisible to Muggle eyes. He stepped through the glass doors and into a world he had only read about.
The atrium was bright, bustling with healers and patients and visitors. Healer Strout met him at the entrance—a tall woman with kind eyes and hands that moved with the precision of a surgeon. She led him through the wards, explaining the work they did, the challenges they faced, the patients they had saved and the ones they had lost.
"This is the Spell Damage ward," she said, leading him through a set of double doors. "These are the patients who have been injured by curses, hexes, and spells gone wrong. Some of them have been here for years. Some will never leave."
Edmund walked past the beds, his eyes wide. A man lay with his skin turned to glass, his organs visible beneath the translucent surface. A woman muttered to herself, her eyes fixed on something that no one else could see. A child—no older than a first year—lay in a bed at the end of the ward, his face blank, his eyes empty.
"Stunned," Healer Strout said quietly. "A dueling accident. He hasn't woken up."
Edmund stood by the child's bed, his hands at his sides. The ring pulsed on his finger, warm and insistent. He reached out, not touching, just feeling. The child's magic was there, but it was dim, like a candle that had burned down to its last flicker.
"Can he be healed?" Edmund asked.
Healer Strout shook her head. "We don't know. Some wake up. Some don't. We can only wait."
Edmund stood there for a long time, watching the child breathe. He wanted to help. He wanted to cast a spell, to say the right words, to do something. But there was nothing. Only waiting.
---