The last day of term arrived with a soft, golden light that seemed at odds with the heaviness in Edmund's chest. The castle, which had been his home for seven years, seemed to hold its breath. Students packed their trunks, professors made their rounds, and the corridors echoed with the sounds of farewells. Edmund had not slept well. He had spent the night packing, sorting through the accumulation of seven years—books, notes, artifacts, the rewards from the trial, the Philosopher's Stone hidden in a lead-lined box at the bottom of his trunk. He had written letters to Professor Marchbanks, to Mr. Thornbury, to Healer Strout. He had made lists. He had prepared.
But he was not ready.
He dressed in his Hogwarts robes for the last time, checked his wand, and walked to the Great Hall for breakfast. The hall was crowded, but the noise was different—softer, more subdued. Students hugged, exchanged addresses, promised to write. The Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students had already left. Only Hogwarts remained.
His friends were already at the Slytherin table. Cassius was nursing a cup of tea, his face pale. Arthur was picking at his eggs, his appetite gone. Horace was reading a letter, his lips moving silently. Astrid sat with her rune stones spread before her, her hands still.
Edmund sat down beside them. No one spoke.
After breakfast, Edmund returned to the Slytherin common room to gather his belongings. On the table by the hearth, a stack of letters had accumulated—more than he had expected. He had received offers throughout the week, but he had not opened them all. Now, with nothing but time before the train, he sat down and began to read.
The first was from the Department of Magical Education, offering him a place in their Advanced Research Fellowship program. The second was from St. Mungo's, offering him a position as a trainee healer. The third was from the Wizengamot's Committee on Hereditary Rights, acknowledging his status as a descendant of Salazar Slytherin and scheduling a hearing for September. The fourth was from the Alchemical Institute of London, offering him a place in their Mastery Program. The fifth was from the Auror Office, inviting him to apply for the Auror Training Program.
Edmund set each letter aside. He would decline them all. He had his own plans.
His friends had received offers too. Cassius had been scouted by two professional Quidditch teams. Arthur had been accepted into the Auror Training Program. Horace had been offered apprenticeships with three different master potioneers. Astrid had been invited to join a research expedition to Norway.
They sat together in the common room, comparing letters, laughing at the absurdity of it all.
"What about you?" Cassius asked. "You must have gotten a hundred offers."
Edmund smiled. "A few."
"And?"
"And I'm declining them all."
His friends stared at him.
"You're what?" Arthur said.
"I have my own plans."
Cassius shook his head. "You're mad. Completely mad."
"Probably."
A note arrived. It was from Albus Dumbledore, the young professor who had helped with the tournament arrangements. He was not a professor—not yet—but he had been a steady presence throughout the year, offering quiet advice to the champions and mediating disputes between the schools. His handwriting was elegant, precise.
Mr. Prince,
If you have a moment before you depart, I would value a word. I shall be in the courtyard.
—Albus Dumbledore
Edmund folded the note and walked outside. The courtyard was empty, the morning sun casting long shadows across the flagstones. Dumbledore stood by the fountain, his auburn hair catching the light. He was young—only twenty-eight—but there was a stillness to him, a calm that seemed older than his years. His half-moon spectacles glinted as he turned.
"Edmund. Thank you for coming."
"You wanted to speak with me?"
Dumbledore nodded. He gestured to a stone bench, and they sat. The fountain burbled softly.
"The tournament was... difficult," Dumbledore said. "Dolohov's death will cast a long shadow. The Ministry is already investigating. There will be changes."
Edmund said nothing.
"I have watched you this year," Dumbledore continued. "Not just in the tasks—in the way you carried yourself. The way you treated your rivals. The way you honored Dolohov after his death. You are not like the other champions."
"I am not like most people," Edmund said.
Dumbledore smiled. "No. You are not." He paused, looking out at the lake. "I do not know what you plan to do after Hogwarts. But I suspect it is something... significant. Something that will require allies."
Edmund turned to look at him. "Are you offering?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "I cannot offer much. I am not a professor here, not permanently. I came only to help with the tournament. My path lies elsewhere—travel, study, perhaps a position at Hogwarts in the future, if they will have me. But I can offer correspondence. A sympathetic ear. A letter of introduction to people I have met in my travels."
Edmund considered this. Dumbledore was not the powerful figure he would become—not yet. But he was brilliant, connected, and genuinely kind. An ally, even a distant one, was valuable.
"I would like that," Edmund said. "To write. To have someone to talk to who... understands."
Dumbledore nodded. "Then we shall. Write to me at the address I will leave with you. I cannot promise to answer quickly—I travel often—but I will answer."
He stood, and Edmund stood with him. Dumbledore extended his hand. "Good luck, Edmund. Whatever you are building, I hope it thrives."
Edmund shook his hand. "Thank you, Albus."
Dumbledore smiled. "Albus. Not Professor. I like that."
He walked away, his robes brushing the flagstones. Edmund watched him go, then turned back toward the castle.
He found his friends on the grounds, sitting by the lake. The giant squid surfaced briefly, then disappeared. The water was dark and still.
Cassius was the first to speak. "My father has arranged an apprenticeship with the Falmouth Falcons. I leave next week. I'll be training as a reserve beater. It's not the big leagues, but it's a start."
Arthur grinned. "The Auror program accepted me. I start training in September. Grandmother cried when she heard."
Horace nodded. "I have an apprenticeship with a master potioneer in Edinburgh. He's old and crotchety and he's never taken an apprentice before, but he liked my N.E.W.T. results. I'll be brewing for St. Mungo's."
They looked at Astrid. She was silent for a long moment. Then she said, "I am traveling. North, to the old rune sites in Scandinavia. My father has arranged for me to study with a runemaster in Uppsala. I will be gone for two years, maybe three."
Edmund looked at each of them. His friends. His family.
"I will be at the Prince manor," he said. "Restoring it. Building something. You are all welcome, whenever you need a place."
Cassius clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll visit. You won't get rid of us that easily."
Arthur laughed. "Write to us. Tell us what you're building."
Horace nodded. "And send us potion ingredients if you find any rare ones."
Astrid said nothing. She simply took Edmund's hand and squeezed it.
They sat in silence, watching the sun climb higher. The hours passed. The train would leave soon.
The platform at Hogsmeade station was crowded with students, trunks, and owls. The scarlet train waited, steam hissing from its engine. Edmund walked with his friends, their footsteps heavy.
They found a compartment near the back—their compartment, the one they had shared for seven years. They piled inside, their trunks levitated onto the racks. The train began to move.
The journey passed in a blur of conversation and silence. They talked about the future, about their plans, about the years ahead. They promised to write. They promised to visit. They promised not to forget.
The train pulled into King's Cross. Edmund stepped onto the platform, his trunk in his hand, Perseus on his shoulder. His friends stood beside him.
"Well," Cassius said. "This is it."
Arthur nodded. "This is it."
Horace adjusted his glasses. "We'll see each other again."
Astrid touched Edmund's hand. "Write to me. I will send you runes."
Edmund looked at them. "I will. And I will visit. When I can."
They embraced—all five of them, a tangle of arms and robes and tears. Then they parted.
Cassius walked toward his father, who was waiting by the barrier. Arthur ran to his grandmother, who was waving a Gryffindor banner. Horace disappeared into the crowd, his mother's voice calling his name. Astrid walked away without looking back.
Edmund stood alone. He watched them go.
The carriage ride to the Prince manor was long and silent. Mrs. Larch had prepared a room, lit a fire, aired the linens. The manor was cold, but it was his. He walked through the halls, touching the walls, the portraits, the furniture. The house had been in his family for centuries. It had seen Princes born and Princes buried. Now it would see a new beginning.
He climbed to the library, where his grandfather's books waited. He sat at the desk, pulled out his journal, and began to write.
The first letter was to Albus Dumbledore, at the address he had given.
Dear Albus,
I have arrived safely. The manor is cold, but it will warm. I have begun making plans. There is much to do.
Thank you for your kindness. I will write again soon.
Yours,
Edmund Prince
The second letter was to Cassius, Arthur, Horace, and Astrid—one letter, four copies.
Dear friends,
I am home. The manor is quiet. I miss you already. Send me your addresses when you have them. I will write often.
Do not forget me. I will not forget you.
Yours,
Edmund
Then he wrote to each of the institutions that had offered him positions—polite letters of refusal, thanking them for their interest but explaining that he had other plans. He did not specify what those plans were.
He sealed the letters and gave them to Perseus. The barn owl took them one by one, winging out into the grey evening sky.
Edmund sat back in his chair. The fire crackled. The library was warm.
He was the Heir of Slytherin. He was the last Prince. He was the Triwizard Champion. He was eighteen years old.
And his work was just beginning.