This book is the Property of the Half Blood Prince
Harry read the name for what was likely the hundredth time that day. He hadn't a clue who the strange little book in his hands used to belong to, but he was intrigued by it and the scribbled notes squished between its margins.
The hand-me-down copy of his 6th year potions textbook had served him well already. Slughorn was now under the impression he was a potions genius—much like his mother—and, perhaps more importantly, a vial of liquid luck was sitting in his pocket.
"Use it wisely," Slughorn had told him under his breath, while pressing the prize into his palm.
Of course, he'd angered Hermione in the process, to the point she hadn't joined him for lunch, but that was a completely separate matter.
He'd followed instructions just like everyone else—only his were a different set.
Perhaps he would have felt differently about losing his friend had he not been able to relish in the sight of Malfoy's fury at not winning himself.
"You need to let me use that book," Ron said, still stunned from Harry's recount of the morning. He'd missed the first potions class, having gotten ill from the fumes in the dungeon after eating a heavy breakfast, and needing to be escorted to Madam Pomfrey by Lisa Turpin from Ravenclaw.
"Hermione will be furious at the both of us, she wants me to return it to Slughorn," Harry said.
"You bloody well won't!" Ron half-shouted, catching the attention of several students eating lunch around them. "You can't just throw out a guaranteed 'O' in potions like that."
Harry nodded in agreement. It would be a complete waste. Besides, while skimming through its yellowed pages, he'd seen what looked to be a number of spells written down, some of which he'd never heard of before. What other secrets is it hiding, he thought to himself.
"Are you feeling alright?" Harry asked, noticing Ron looked awfully green all of a sudden.
His friend had been staring at a group of 4th years loudly discussing the upcoming Quidditch tryouts.
"What—oh, m'fine," he mumbled beneath his breath and grabbed another sandwich from the platter in front of them.
The time had come for their first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson. Around him, he could see the many disgruntled faces of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff 6th years as they packed their belongings and left the Great Hall.
Only the Slytherins looked at all pleased to be heading to Snape's classroom. But none other than Draco Malfoy looked the happiest of all—a smarmy grin plastered on his face as he waltzed towards them, clearly having forgotten about the disappointment of this morning's competition.
"About time we had a proper professor for once, wouldn't you say? We've had too many idiots and…creatures for my liking."
"Shut up, Malfoy," Ron said, trying his best to ignore the blonde Slytherin as they climbed a set of stairs.
Malfoy turned to Ron with a gleam in his eye. "I've heard Professor Snape will be showing us what the real Dark Arts are like, Weasley. I hope you'll be able to keep your stomach long enough to find your seat."
Laughing at his own joke, Malfoy left to rejoin the rest of the Slytherins.
"A terrible show on Draco's part," a voice said from behind them. Ernie MacMillan, a friendly Hufflepuff, joined them outside the classroom door as they waited. "He's acted a ponce ever since we've been children. Say what you will about Lucius Malfoy, but he was at least able to play the role of the gentleman when needed."
"You've known Malfoy since you were children?" Harry asked interestedly, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder to where Malfoy was busy whispering to Nott and Daphne, the latter who looked to be paying him no attention.
"Oh yes, I had my fair share of visits to the manor. He was spoilt and arrogant back then as well, but at least he was palatable at times and we were capable of getting along," Ernie said.
"You were friends with Malfoy?"
The name Malfoy and the word 'friend' were two things he never thought would come together from… anyone, really.
"Well, I would say it depends on what context you are looking at it. From our family's point of view, yes. But personally, we were more acquaintances, but friendly enough," Ernie explained to Harry.
"It doesn't look like you two are very friendly now," Harry pointed out.
"Oh, not at all. Me and Draco haven't spoken in ages. I believe he deemed me unworthy of any contact the moment I was sorted into Hufflepuff—a bit of a blessing in disguise if you ask me," Ernie chuckled lightly to himself. "Draco has always been the lonely sort."
The door to the defence classroom swung open.
The room looked nothing like it used to. Moth-eaten curtains were drawn over the windows; the half-digested material leaking in slivers of light, which were quickly swallowed by the inky darkness that permeated the rest of the room. It stunk of corrupted magic, and Harry could feel an uncomfortable tingling fill his scar.
Nobody dared say a word. There was no fiddling of quills, rustling of parchment, or fumbling of textbooks.
It was as silent as death.
Suddenly, the door slammed shut, fully shrouding the classroom in blackness, and the hard thud of impatient footsteps followed. Some students cried out in fright.
There was a click and the projector turned on, filling the room in a bronze haze. Illuminated against the backdrop was Severus Snape, leering over the students sat in front of him.
"I will have your undivided attention, those who choose to interrupt me will not like the consequences," he drew out the last word. His onyx eyes fixed unblinkingly on Harry.
Tearing his gaze away, Snape marched between the rows of desks.
"I admit, I am surprised that so many of you have somehow managed to make it this far, given the utterly incompetent instruction you have received these last five years," Snape sneered. "I am here for one reason only—not to babysit, but to teach you how to defend yourselves against the Dark Arts."
His wand tapped the projector, presenting a series of grotesque images of monsters and tortured beings across the wall.
"The material is advanced. I have no doubt many of you will struggle to keep up. If that is the case, let it be known I will not hesitate to drop you from my class. My time is not to be wasted," Snape's snapped out.
"The Dark Arts…" he continued softly, almost reverently, like one would speak to a lover, "are ever changing… they do not rest for the weak… they are constantly evolving, shifting, and sinking their claws into the very fabric of the world. Fighting them directly is as foolish as attempting to fight nature itself."
A few rows to his left, Harry spotted Hermione scribbling madly on a piece of parchment.
Snape's eyes narrowed on her viciously. "Parchment and quills away! Or are you incapable of sitting still Granger? Regurgitating my own words back at me will only ensure a failing grade—it would do you some good to think for yourself for once."
Hermione immediately dropped her quill and placed her hands in her lap.
"If you wish to survive against the Dark Arts, you must understand its very nature. Intelligence is not enough," his eyes snapped back to Hermione, who meekly dropped her quill again and looked down at her feet. "Instincts, intuition, and invention are what you will rely on if you do not want to end up like this."
The flickering images on the projector slowed to show the details of a disembowelled wizard screaming under the effects of the Cruciatus Curse.
"But sir, we already covered the Unforgivables in fourth year," Mandy Brocklehurst spoke up from the front row.
Snape glared at her with utter contempt. "The Unforgiveable Curses do not comprise the Dark Arts," he spat out. "By the time the year is up, I will have shown you things that will make the Unforgivables look like a tickling charm."
Snape smiled for what was possibly the first time Harry could remember.
"Pair up! One partner will attack, the other will defend—nonverbally!"
With a swish of his wand, the projector was violently thrown to the back of the classroom.
"How are we supposed to cast nonverbally if we've never done it before?" Ron whispered to Harry as they pushed their desks off to the side.
"Control over your mind, Weasley. Something of you may well be lacking," Snape jeered, much to the amusement of Malfoy across the room.
"You'd think he might have lightened up after finally getting the job he's wanted his whole life," Ron said with a shake of his head.
"Listen," Ron added beneath his breath, peeking over at Malfoy who was lining up against Nott, "After I left the Hospital Wing, I ran into Malfoy sneaking around Gryffindor Tower."
Harry's mind immediately went to what he saw on the train. "Was he carrying a bag?" he asked.
Ron closed his eyes to think. "Yeah—uh, it wasn't big one, but he was carrying something," he said.
Around them, spells started to fly with most students muttering softly as they cast, in the attempt to appear as though they were doing so nonverbally. Harry doubted it would fool Snape.
"I think Malfoy is doing something for Voldemort," Harry said, trying to keep his voice below the sound of spell fire.
Ron's eyes bugged out. "You think so? Like trying to off you?"
"Not sure," he said. Had Malfoy really wanted to kill him, he could have just done it on the train.
Harry knew he was missing something. He just didn't know what it was.
"Potter! Weasley!" Snape's cold voice caught their attention. "Did I not give you instructions to practice nonverbal spells."
Harry could tell Ron was desperately holding back the urge to talk back.
"Stop." Snape ordered just as Ron was pulling out his wand. "I believe the class would do well with a demonstration. Step back, Weasley." His eyes shifted to Harry and narrowed like that of a predator. "Surely the Chosen One is capable of something so simple as silent casting."
Harry had a nagging feeling that Snape had been planning this since he'd picked him up at the front gates.
Quicker than Harry thought possible, Snape's wand was out, and a sickly yellow spell came shooting at him.
For a moment, Severus Snape wasn't standing in front of him. Black robes swirled in an unseen wind, as Snape's pallid skin turned bone white and a fire lit within the depths of his black eyes, growing into pits of blood red flame. A high, cold laugh sounded in his ears.
Dropping on instinct, Harry twisted his shoulders, the yellow light skimming just past his nose; and in the same motion, his holly wand burst with light.
Gasps echoed around the room.
Blinking away the fog in his vision, Harry was met with the sight of shattered chains lying in a heap at Snape's feet, his wand pulsating murderously in his hand.
"Out."
A chill spread throughout the room.
"Out. Now." Snape's jaw was clenched so tightly that anymore pressure would certainly shatter his teeth.
Harry left without another word, not even stopping to pick up his things.
Rushing through the corridors of the castle without a destination in mind, Harry could hear the
centuries old portraits scurrying between their frames and whispering to their neighbours about this most recent bit of juicy gossip.
Harry didn't know what had come over him. Was it his anger? Or was it something worse?
Turning a corner tightly, Harry bumped into someone from the other hallway. Liquid splashed up into his face and he heard the soft patter of paper falling to the ground.
The distinct smell of sherry filled his nostrils.
"Oh goodness… again and again I find myself here," the scratchy voice of Sybil Trelawney came from somewhere on the ground.
Looking down, Harry spotted his former Divination professor on her hands and knees, crawling across the floor picking up strange playing cards and a chipped glass bottle.
A feeling of resentment built within him at the sight of the pitiful woman.
Taking a deep breath, he let the feeling pass. She had ruined his life— yes, but only unknowingly.
Trelawney peered up at him, her eyes magnified through her thick, coke bottle glasses. "The eye… the eye never lies," she muttered to herself as she picked up the remainder of her cards. "Storm clouds brew… and a flash of green lightning approaches. The inner eye knows all…"
She climbed to her feet and almost tripped on the end of her robes.
"Er—right. Well, sorry about knocking over your cards professor," Harry apologized lamely.
"The inner eye is clear. I could give you a reading—tell you what is to come," she offered while shuffling the deck.
"I'm fine, thanks," Harry declined stiffly, wanted nothing more than to be rid of the woman forever.
"No matter…" she mumbled quietly, still shuffling. "You should join my class," her unfocused eyes stared right through him.
"Er, I was in your class for the last three years," Harry said.
"You would make a fantastic subject," she carried on, ignoring him. "The inner eye is a fickle thing, opening and closing upon a whim. But with you… you make the eye open. You are so clear, so… fascinating."
Trelawney gripped his arm. He tried to pull away, but she dug her nails deeper into his skin.
"You toe the line of disaster, living in the presence of evil. So many futures intersect with your own." Her breath was hot on his face. "Choices will define you and what you become. Death is the end and it clings to you like a cloak. It is the last enemy to be destroyed… Come to my classroom, Harry Potter, and your future will be told."
Stumbling down the corridor Trelaweny shuffled her cards, leaving Harry, frozen, staring after her retreating figure.