Journal of Hadrian James Potter-King of 1991-1992
So I'm finally at Hogwarts. Yay? Honestly, I had wanted to go to Beauxbatons. It was in France and I can speak French and read it because it's the language of love—perk of being a son of Aphrodite. They hadn't sent me an acceptance letter though; I think they usually stick strictly to only allowing people from France to go, which is annoying and stupid. It won't be that bad though—the reading and writing thing—because Jocelyn Blackwood, one of my friends and a daughter of Hecate, gave me some glasses—just with glass lenses; thank the gods I don't actually need glasses—that made it so I was able to read English for my birthday and taught me the incantation to translate my work—that I will most likely write in a confusing mix of Ancient Greek, Latin, and French—into English.
Thank the gods for Jocelyn, I don't know how I'd survive without that one.
Anyway, if I'm going to start off this journal right, I suppose I should say a bit about myself: I am a half-blood son of Aphrodite, goddess of love; I have been going to Camp Half-Blood since I was seven and my adoptive parents—Jonathan and Bethany King—were hit by a drunk driver; I can charmspeak; I am a wizard; I have messy black hair and kaleidoscope eyes; and I live in New York but am going to boarding school in Europe called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Today I took the train along with everyone else to the school—why did we need a train when we could travel by magical means? Maybe a Portkey?—which was a gaudy scarlet with gold trimming. Quite the eye sore; I was glad to get to my compartment if only to save my vision. I immediately started to read the extra-curricular book I had bought at Flourish and Blotts about Curses, Hexes, and Jinxes. I thought that it would prove useful on the Hermes cabin—they need a taste of their own medicine. It sounded more promising than the spells that were in the Charms text—why would I need to levitate something? Do they think that I am unable to pick things up with those things that people call arms? And anyway, I had already tried that spell under the supervision of Jocelyn and it was easy.
It was just about time for the train to leave the platform—9 ¾; how weird—when the door to the compartment I was in was opened by a gangly red haired boy with freckles all over. He asked me if he could share my compartment as everywhere else was full—unlikely, but it was only polite to allow him in.
He introduced himself as Ron Weasely, and all I could say was, "What an unfortunate last name!"
He didn't appear to appreciate my comment, no matter how true it was, and went on a rant about how he was not a blood-traitor just because he wasn't a slimy Slytherin or Death Eater in training like all the other Pureblood bigots out there were.
Honestly, all I said was that he had an unfortunate last name. I tried to shut him up naturally, by explaining myself, "I only thought that the name Weasley had an uncanny resemblance to weasel, and that it would be very easy for people to make fun of."
Then he glares at me! Did he think that I was making fun of him? Because I was only pointing it out.
He wasn't very polite either; he hadn't even asked me my name. And when the trolley came around and I got some chocolate frogs and Bertie Botts Every Flavored Beans for myself, he made what I am sure is his most pitiful look—evidently he was over the whole Weasley-weasel fiasco—and pulled out a corn beef sandwich that his mother had packed for him, saying that he didn't like corn beef and that she always forgot. The he looked at the candy I had gotten for myself with obvious longing.
I made no move to share with him. I didn't even know this Ron Weasley for ten minutes before he had started glaring at me, and now he wanted me to give him my food, when he had been so rude as to not even ask my name? I don't think so.
Then he pulled out his disgusting rat who was patchy and missing a toe—while I was still eating!—and starts bragging about how his brothers—Fred and George—had taught him a spell to change the thing yellow. Changing it yellow would not improve its looks, so I was quite relieved when the compartment door opened, even if it was a bossy girl asking if they had seen a toad, as a boy named Neville had lost one.
I said to her, "You should check the loo. Damp there." She had already lost interest though, having seen Ron's wand out. She wanted to see the spell that would turn the rat—Scabbers?—yellow.
Ron cleared his throat, and I couldn't tell if he was uncomfortable or feeling important, and said in rhyme, "Sunshine, daisies, butter, mellow; turn this stupid fat rat yellow!" He flared his wand at the end, but it didn't matter: the rat was not yellow. I laughed. He was quite gullible if he believed that that was a spell. I think I might like his brothers much more than him.
Hermione Granger—the bossy girl—boasted about how she had tried out a few spells herself and that they had worked fine, and left a bit after that—I didn't hear the whole exchange, as I was laughing too hard.
The rest of the train ride went smoothly if you ignored that blond boy with a pointed face ("Names Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.") and his two thugs who had come barging in demanding if Harry Potter was in the compartment while looking at me, or more precisely, my forehead.
"No," I smiled politely, "there is no Harry Potter here. My name is Hadrian King and this is Ron Weasley."
He then sneered at me in disgust, calling me a "Mudblood." Very impolite.
"I'll have you know," I responded to the insult with an ironic smile, while Ron was spluttering furiously in the background, "that I am a half-blood."
He went a faint pink and retreated. He probably didn't know how to respond when someone didn't rise to his bait.
When we finally got off the train it was dark out, and the first years had to cross a lake in a rickety boat to get to Hogwarts. Was all this just for show? To try and endear us to the castle? Because I still much prefer camp, with the cabins and big house and strawberry fields.
I was quite cold by the time we made it to the castle and a stern woman named Professor McGonagall led us to our sorting. Ron had said that his brother Fred had told him they had to fight a troll, which meant that we didn't have to fight a troll. It was obvious that his brother was pranking him again.
We had to try on this ratty old hat that sang a dreadful song in a horrifically off-key voice. It was boring, waiting until my name was called, "Potter-King, Hadrian!"
When I put on the hat—feeling paranoid about lice and transferred dandruff—it spoke to me in my mind, telling me I had enough smarts for Ravenclaw but not the drive; that I was brave enough for Gryffindor but wasn't as impulsive, and was most definitely not suited for Slytherin. In the end the hat called out, "Huffelpuff!" because of my hard work and loyalty. My tie changed to yellow and black—the house colors.
The entirety of the Great Hall—minus a minority of muggleborns—seemed stunned at where I had been sorted—or was it because they had been getting my name wrong all these years without knowing? Calling me Harry Potter instead of Hadrian?—but the Huffelpuff's regained their senses first, and burst with enthusiasm, clapping and cheering.
I made friends with Susan Bones, Hannah Abbot, and Justin Finch-Fletchly. Susan was a pureblood, Hannah was a half-blood—but not my kind—while Justin was a muggleborn. I had to keep asking what the food was, and considering how different European food was to American, my stomach was not very happy. It didn't help that most of it was heavy and the food at camp was light and health conscious.
Headmaster Dumbledore—when I had heard the name I had snorted and mumbled, "Dumb old door," under my breath—announced after dessert that the third floor corridor was forbidden to all those who did not want to die a painful death. A few people laughed. I didn't. When you're a demigod, you tend to take these things a little more seriously. I would not be going to that corridor.
Oh! He also announced that there would be a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Remus Lupin. I hope he's good; he looked kind if not a little ragged and worn.
Anyway, that's about it.
Until next time,
Hadrian King
