"What I want to be when I grow up. My suggestions in (*…*) hope this helps! –josh,
Student Essay, grade 5, elementary school in Little Whinging Mr. H. Potter. "
A little boy in stupid round glasses and very shabby clothes sighed to himself as he looked at the ceiling and began to chew on the tip of the pen. Rushed by fast approaching death, an autumn fly flew in crazed circles, buzzing of the fluorescent light drowned in the buzzing of the fly.
The boy watched the fly's flight from the door to the first desk from the window, then to the teacher's desk and the trash can. Making a sharp turn around the trash can, the fly soared up, circled over the empty head of Polkiss Pierce, then banked sharply to the right, and once again rose to the ceiling, where it flew out of sight, to the back of the class. The boy sighed again, looked at the sheet in front of him, his name proudly displayed in the top right corner, nibbled a little more on his pen and wrote:
"When I grow up, I'll be big and strong, like the Terminator. I will have a great bike, a big gun and big muscles. Terminator does not like to talk in vain, and he is cool, and he doesn't have to go to some boring office job every day, and in the evening to go home to some boring woman that resembles a fish. Instead, he pulls out his big gun and goes to have fun. When he does, everything explodes, and the girls scream. I also like to look at the explosions, although I have yet seen them only on television, and sometimes I even think that killing can be quite fun, especially if you do it from the heart. I've already made up my mind that I will poison Uncle Vernon with acetone or liquid for cleaning the toilet, and probably going to beat Aunt Petunia with a hot frying pan until her stupid neck breaks. I have not quite decided what I would do with Dudley, but maybe it will involve a saw, hammer and nails, I just found a whole box in a shed. I'm going to hammer nails into his stomach and laughing maniacally. And then I cut the bodies into small pieces, put them into trash bags and take them to the dump. "
Harry raised his head and squinted at the clock hanging above the blackboard. Fifteen minutes until the end of class. The fly, having made peace with the world and with itself, sat on the pencil case of Samantha Douglas rubbing its feet, and, if you squinted, so that the image was slightly blurred, you could imagine that the fly is also writing something – a will, for example, or the fly version of Magna Carta.
Harry crumpled the sheet of paper and put it in his pocket, then pulled out a fresh piece of paper and carefully wrote:
"What I want to be when I grow up.
Student writing grade 5 elementary school in Little Whinging H. Potter.
When I grow up I want to become a scientist and invent a cure for cancer so that people no longer suffer. "
1.2
Harry had mixed feelings about Hogwarts.
Of course, on one hand, it was cool. The huge castle, the Great Hall alone could fit a football field, talking portraits, ghosts and the whole atmosphere of this magic ... well, you know.
On the other hand, there was no electricity. You can't expect anything good from a place with any electricity, and Harry had to mentally brace himself for cold baths. Fortunately for him, his fears were not realized, but Harry, however, still felt somewhat strained.
"Well, let's see what we've got," - said the distribution Hat when Harry's turn came. -
"Oh, Momma," – it added, after studying Potter's thoughts a little more carefully
"Just not Slytherin." – telepathed Harry, trying to make his thoughts more menacing.
"I wish I could just assign you to Azkaban," - replied the Hat. - "And why not Slytherin? This rott... uh, this splendid faculty is the place for you, my child. "
"NOT Slytherin"- Mentally snapped the child.
"Look, it is traditionally considered the faculties of dark magicians" – the hat was fast talking now. - "Don't you want to be a dark magician? It's ... well, as you kids say… so cool! "
Harry thought about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named whom he learned about only recently, and not much at that, but who already made it to his book of Big Losers-I mean, how idiotic can you be, not even able to kill a baby? And the pale shrimp Malfoy, who he'd have to share the house with, he thought about it, and his desire to become a dark magician withered in him, without even properly growing. After reading his thoughts once again, the Hat sighed.
"So no chance at Slytherin huh? Well ... maybe this will teach you to direct your aggressive impulses in a socially acceptable direction ... "
- Gryffindor!
1.3
Despite his skepticism towards magic, Harry could not help but appreciate its benefits. With the help of magic you can levitate heavy textbooks, burn your classmate's hair at his old school he had to do it with a lighter, and that didn't feel that good, after all, the fire was too close to him for comfort, curse people with acne and Transfigurate Dudley's holey sock into a Spanish Boot. However, Harry could not do any of these things yet, but he was going to learn.
But the real revelation for him was Potions.
Harry happily let the professor's dramatic speech not reach his brain, instead drawing a lady with tits the size of which contradicted all the laws of anatomy.
- Potter! - Snape said suddenly. - What happens if I mix the pounded root of asphodel to the infusion of wormwood?
- No idea - Harry replied, and began to pick his nose.
- You must address to me as "sir" or "Professor" - Snape protested - and remove your finger from your nose; did you find a silver mine in there or something?
- YESSIIIIIIIR! - Potter stood at attention, staring at him. - And this is my nose and I do with it as I want
- As long as you and your nose are in my office, behave properly, if you please, - hissed Snape, losing his patience. Then, realizing, apparently, the absurdity of what was happening, he decided to change the subject.
- Well, let's try again. Potter, if I asked you to bring me a bezoar, where would you find it?
- I don't know, sir, - said Harry casually. - By the way, Professor, is it true that the best soap is obtained from human fat?
Snape choked on another sarcastic remark.
- Potter, you are out of your mind? - He asked almost losing his bearing. - Another stupid question and I will make soap out of you. Five points off of Gryffindor!
Harry shrugged, all their scores and other trash did not interest him, he was already thinking about his next question - is there magic napalm, or its equivalent? Realizing however that asking this professor anything was pointless, he dropped the matter altogether and he was left alone. The practical part also did not stir his enthusiasm, but as he indulged on how to make a potion to cause boils instead of curing them, there was a loud hiss, and the class was filled with acrid green smoke.
Climbing on top of his desk like everyone else, Harry looked at the classroom with the eyes of a tactician, looking at the future battlefield. His eyes did not miss the cauldron, molten to the state of a shapeless piece of metal, the black spots, which the hellish potion burnt onto the wooden desk surface, nor the hideous boils that covered the skin of its unfortunate creator.
When poor Neville was taken to the hospital wing, Harry sat down, glancing wistfully at the empty desk. The fact that this seemingly unremarkable boy was able to so easily do the things that he could not do himself, caused him some jealousy, but he thought that Longbottom should be kept in mind as a potential weapon of mass destruction - assuming of course, that his meteoric success was not accidental.
And he thought that he might begin to like Potions, accurately recording the professor's remark about the fact that the observed effect is caused by late addition of porcupine quills - and smiled, dreamily gazing into space.
Seeing that smile, the normally calm, cool and collected Professor Snape shuddered.
