September 2nd landed on a Monday that year, which meant waking up at ungodly hours and getting countless little headaches in the effort to stay awake as we listened to the teachers ramble about all the ways they were going to torture us for daring to enjoy our summer break. I don't know how I managed to go through that every year. I mean, classes started every day at seven thirty in the morning, and, for the first years of school, we had seven hours straight of classes with only an hour of break stuck in the middle. And that was without counting the hours I spent at Quidditch practice and the ridiculous amount of homework that took even someone like Hermione hours to complete. It's truly a wonder how Ashford managed to squeeze in saving the world in the middle of all that hell.

The teachers immediately took to my brother, both for the fact that he had already mastered everything in the year's curriculum so he seemed like such a smart boy, and the fact that he was as diligent and responsible and respectful as our mother was. It was unfair, then, that I was met with the same expectations. As if, suddenly, James Potter wasn't my father. Really, they can't blame me. Being an entitled moron was, quite literally, in my blood. By the end of my first year, all teachers had lost hope in me. Even Dumbledore, in the few times I was close enough to study him, looked at me in the way someone would look at their fifteen-year-old dog after they pooped all over the carpet. Like he wanted to awkwardly pat my head and reassure me that it wasn't my fault, that it was sort of expected of me now.

Professor McGonagall - or Minnie, as I called her since our first Transfiguration class - was passing out our timetables that morning as we had breakfast. As I told you in the last entry, I never really had any close friends, so I often rotated between groups during our food periods. The closest thing I would have called real friends were Fred and George Weasley, but we were mostly allies and connoisseurs of the subtle art of pranks. This was my first year without them, so, I guess I felt a bit nostalgic because, that morning, I chose to sit with Lee and Katie Bell, the two other people who often hung around them as much as I did. And when McGonagall came by, she handed the two of them their seventh-year timetables without a word before her eyes landed on me.

"Potter," she said.

I smiled, so much it probably looked fake. It wasn't. McGonagall had always been my favourite professor, and I was sure this year would be the one where I would finally break her. "Good morning, Minnie. How were your holidays? Didn't miss me too much, did you?"

She pursed her lips, and a burst of victory burst in my chest. "I had hoped that, after your exemplary OWL results, you were finally ready to take your studies seriously."

"Sorry to disappoint." I wasn't.

"Yes, your schedule looked rather pitiful with only three subjects in it, which is why I was so relieved when your mother called the school and asked me for an update on your subject choices."

Then, she suddenly smiled, and, at the time, it was powerful enough to stop my heart. To this day, I don't think I've ever seen a wider smile on her face, and I hated the way Lee and Katie were struggling to keep their laughs to themselves. I should have seen this coming. After all, she had pulled that exact same move in my second year when she forced me to change Divination and Muggle Studies for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. "No wonder she never asked me. And here I was hoping it had slipped her mind."

"Fortunately, it did not," she handed me my timetable and I nearly fainted when I saw eight subjects filling up nearly every available slot of the week.

My mother had never accepted my habit of slacking off. When my uncle, Remus, told her my Patronus was a sloth - Slowy the Sloth, who majestically swam towards the dementors while laying on its back, hands behind his head, half asleep as it paddled with its feet - I think she had a sort of mini heart attack. Ever since then, she became set on beating the laziness out of me, but since this was, you know, not the 1800s, she did that by overworking me as much as she could without risking Ministry interference. I don't think she would have been satisfied until Slowy changed into something else. It never did.

Then, I got an idea. "Ah, yes, but, unfortunately, I didn't buy the books for my classes," I sighed, rather dramatically. "Alas, I'm afraid I'll have to sign out of those classes."

"Oh, don't worry, Potter. The school has second-hand books at our disposal. The professors have already been informed, they'll give you yours during your classes. As for Potions, that's been taken care of already. Your mother already ordered the necessary ingredients for you. They should arrive before the week ends."

"And she couldn't buy me my own set of books?"

"She said you'd make do with our old stock." And then she left, still smug and satisfied with herself.

My head fell into my hands, I had been so thoroughly defeated before I even finished my first breakfast of the year. Katie leaned in beside me and started studying my timetable. She winced. "Ouch. Sorry, Harry." She patted my back awkwardly, and after Lee had a look, he turned almost mournful. "Thoroughly outplayed, mate," he said. "No wonder your father fell for her. She's good."

And the prankster in me couldn't help but agree. If it hadn't happened to me, I don't think I could have ever been prouder.

I looked back at my schedule. Two periods of Runes followed by two periods of Defence. At least I had an hour-long break to eat something, because, after that, I had two periods of Potions followed by another two periods of Charms. Studying the rest of the week, I groaned when I realised there were still worse days to come.

Runes was as boring as ever. Whenever Professor Babbling said something that was either too complex or too technical to remember, I grabbed my pen and jotted a quick sentence that would spark my memory. By the end of the class, I hadn't even written down a whole page in my 8-inch notebook. And, yes, you read right, I used a pen and a notebook instead of a quill and parchment. If I was going to be forced to slave myself away through eight hours of classes per day, I would do so on my own terms. Back in my second year, when I first started doing this, the teachers tried to put a stop to my insubordination. Even Dumbledore got involved at some point, my parents as well. But when I initiated my anti-note-taking strike and proved that I could, rather easily, achieve EEs and even Os without writing a single word down, they finally relented and gave me back my Muggle utensils.

Throughout my seven years at Hogwarts, I was the only student allowed to use pens and notebooks. When others tried their own rebellions, they failed so miserably the teachers didn't even have to ask them to resume taking notes. Being a prodigy had its benefits, after all, and I exploited them to their full extent. Your mother could have probably gotten away with it if she had tried it, as well as a few others. But, usually, the people who could manage it were either pure-bloods who started writing with quills and parchment when they were four years old, or they either saw it as the worst sort of sacrilege and vehemently opposed it. I still smile at the flashes of a tiny, outraged twelve-year-old Hermione Granger berating me in front of the entire common room for "disrespecting the teachers," and "trying to get the world to bend on their knees before me." She used to be so cute, even when she was making me out to be some up-and-coming Dark Lord.

Defence, however, was far from boring. Back when we were going to Hogwarts, there was this curse, you see. Voldemort himself placed him. Apparently, when Dumbledore told him he couldn't have the Defence job, he threw a hissy fit and made it so no one else could either. So, every year there was a new teacher and, apart from Uncle Remus, every teacher was worse than the last. We went from an incompetent, stuttering fool to a self-obsessed narcissist, followed by an actual Death Eater from Voldemort's inner circle, and then, in our fifth year, the Dolores Umbridge took the spot. Picture an entitled receptionist and combine it with the Devil and then, aim higher. And that's the last we'll speak of that vile thing disguised as a woman.

Why did I go on that little rant? Because, well, that was the year Severus Snape's lifelong wish was granted, and he became our Defence professor. It goes without saying that he most definitely followed the pattern. Now, here's where things will start to get weird. You'll find inconsistencies and rambles of mine that disagree with whatever you've heard from other people. The war brought out various topics like that, topics that we rarely discuss within our little family group because of how controversial they are. Severus Snape is one of those topics. You'll no doubt have heard of a few who refer to him as a tragic hero, the key to us winning the war, a master manipulator with a heart of gold. I don't buy into that bullsh**t. Sorry, I know I shouldn't swear, but it just pisses me off when everyone tries to excuse him for all that he did. And this is not just me still being bitter about him being an arse to us for those six years at Hogwarts. Maybe, later on, you'll understand why I feel this way.

Snape was as nasty as ever, starting the class with a pompous speech that idolized the Dark Arts more than explained them, before he split us up into pairs and instructed us to practice our non-verbal casting. I was paired with a girl from my House, Lavender Brown. She was funny, extroverted, and definitely nice enough to look at, so I didn't complain. We didn't get much work done. I was a bit oblivious back then, but she was definitely flirting with me, and since I was never one to turn down the attention, I flirted back. It got the attention of a lot of people in class. My brother gave a defeated sigh. Hermione had a weird tick to her eye, almost as if she had forgotten how to blink, and poor Neville paid the price, as her non-verbal jinxes were rather powerful that day. Snape noticed as well. He strutted towards us, and, unfortunately for me, I was too busy laughing at something Lavender said that I didn't realise it until he loomed over me.

"Having fun, Potter?" He asked.

"I'm not complaining," I smiled.

"Well, please, don't let me bore you. Since you're so adept at non-verbal casting already, how about you give a quick demonstration to the class."

"Ah, I wouldn't want to embarrass them, sir. Best to let them learn at their own time, yeah?"

Lavender giggled. It made me puff my chest out like a proud lion.

Snape's face darkened. "I insist," he hissed.

I knew how to cast non-verbally since the beginning of my fifth year, so I wasn't really worried. "Alright, then. Just a quick demonstration? Lav, you up for it?"

"Miss Brown can barely cast third-year spells, much less non-verbally," Snape interjected. "No, a new partner will be required." He trailed his eyes over the crowd. Hermione was bouncing on the balls of her feet, desperation clear in her eyes, it was taking everything for her not to raise her arm and volunteer. "And who better than the other Potter? After all, if our Chosen One could vanquish the Dark Lord, he shouldn't have any problem with his mediocre twin."

Ashford fumed, but stepped forward nonetheless. We were both used to it. Snape made sure to pit us against each other ever since our very first Potions class. And as he conjured a duelling stage in the centre of the room, the class eagerly gathered around it. We took our places on opposite sides of the platform. Hermione stood right beside my brother, but her eyes were on me. She looked almost unsure, as if she didn't know whether she should feel angry or smug. I blew her a sarcastic kiss, and it was enough to sway her towards the former.

And just then, a silencing charm hit me straight in the chest.

"Celebrity Potter, you will, to the best of your abilities, disarm, petrify, and stun your brother, in that order. Mediocre Potter, you will attempt to do the same, but non-verbally."

I wanted to call foul, the game was clearly rigged, but I couldn't. And even if I could have, it wouldn't have mattered. I knew Snape's response without having to ask for it. A master of non-verbal casting, such as yourself, should have no problem against an unhindered foe.

"Begin."

I threw a nasty smile at my brother before beginning my attack. If I hadn't been silenced, I would have probably insulted him or goaded him along. I was always good at that, reading my opponents, getting inside their heads, making them lose focus, get angry, make mistakes, and my brother was that old, worn book in the drawer nearest my bed. There were times when I was too harsh, when I said something that even made myself flinch. I've never been too considerate of my words. But back then, I didn't care. I loved my brother, I would have done anything for him. Except let him beat me. It was hard enough having your brother as the hero of the wizarding world. If I hadn't made sure to separate myself from him and prove my worth on my own, I would have been forgotten, dismissed, and I would have never allowed that.

We went back and forth. I focused on trying to land an easy jinx on him, something to trip him up or stall him for just a couple of seconds so that I could deliver the finishing touches. But my brother was more agile, his reflexes were better, and he trained every day for hours with the demented Coach Maddern. I couldn't land a single thing. The only thing that kept me in the duel longer than I should have was that my brother always struggled with non-verbals. That was innate, instinctive, it wasn't something you couldn't learn from a book, and as he had to yell the spells out every time, he broadcasted himself too much. But it wasn't enough to beat him. He had the theory tattooed behind his eyes, he knew over a dozen more jinxes than me, and he actually took the time to read duelling books and pick up on strategy used by master duellists. So, it only took one slight misstep on my part for my brother to capitalize on it.

Ashford feinted a spell and I moved to dodge, but as I did, I landed on my brother's inflating jinx. Before I knew it, my leg started expanding, like a balloon, putting me off balance until it started lifting me into the air. And just like that, I lost. The wand was ripped out of my hand, my arms tied to my side, and then the darkness came.

When I was revived, the entire class was laughing at me. I was still in the air, stuck to the ceiling, as my leg continued inflating. It was larger than the rest of my body now, I bounced off it, like one of those Muggle inflatable castles. My brother was looking at me in resignation, almost pity, as if he had no other choice but to do this to me. I resented him because I was a teenager and had way too many emotions to be rational. It didn't make sense, it wasn't as if I wouldn't have done the same to him. I would've basked in the praise, I think. Still, it didn't make it any easier watching as Snape smirked up at me before casting the counter-jinx and letting me fall onto the platform without as much as a cushioning charm.

He tutted down at me. "It seems your non-verbals still need work," he said, as if there was anyone in the school who could beat Ashford Potter in a duel. "You'll write me a foot and a half on the importance of non-verbal casting, and how to improve on it." Then he turned to my brother. "One point to Gryffindor, for providing suitable amusement."

When the ball rang, and we all started leaving the classroom, Hermione turned back and blew a kiss at me. I vibrated with anger but kept my head down. Both Slytherins and Gryffindors were heading to the Great Hall, so I stood back, letting everyone pass me, and when I was sure I was safe, I threw one of my Dad's old jinxes at the back of her head. In a moment, that long, brown curly hair transformed into a black, greasy, shoulder-length hair identical to Snape's. And before she could get a chance to turn around, I cast a cheering charm at the group of Slytherin girls. They all started laughing, loudly enough to gain Hermione's attention. She turned to them with murder in her eyes.

"15 points from Slytherin for attacking a prefect!"

"B-but it wasn't us!" Daphne Greengrass giggled.

"5 points for lying to a prefect."

The Slytherins kept complaining, whining about their innocence, but the fact that they kept laughing didn't help their plight. And as I walked past them, I made sure not to smile until they were well behind me.

She still had the weird, disgusting hair by the time I made it to Potions. She was grabbing at it self-consciously, whispering counter-jinx after counter-jinx, as she had been through all of Lunch. I gave her a big, happy smile, but she didn't seem to appreciate it.

The potions' lab had been reorganized. The larger tables that fit four students had been cut in half and spread out throughout the entire room. And since I was the last one to get there, it meant I was stuck with the other loner of the class: Draco Malfoy.

Here is where the story truly starts. The moment you've been itching for.

It may or may not surprise you that Draco and I didn't get along. Like, at all. If there was someone at Hogwarts I pranked more than the oh-so-sacred Golden Trio, it was him. He was too much like his father, a completely different person from who he became. If I were to take my time to explain our entire history, I would need a whole other journal. What's important for you to know is that, at least at this point, he was a ponce, a bit of an arrogant prick, and so unlike who he truly was at heart. So, if I treat him a bit unkindly in these next few entries, it isn't just because I was an arrogant moron. It's because we were both so alike, it made us hate each other before we truly understood one another.

Of course, looking back, there's always the "what if?" Draco isn't the only person who I've had these what-if scenarios about. We, as people, like doing this a lot: What if we had been friends since the beginning? What if we had realised being brothers was more important than our petty squabbles? What if we hadn't been idiots and admitted our feelings to each other sooner? I revisit scenarios like this a tad too much, and, because of it, I'm confident when I say I wouldn't change my first five years of knowing Draco. It was important for us, and we both would have been very different people if we hadn't started out that way.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The important thing is that I'm entering the Potions' classroom five minutes too late, the seat beside Draco is the only one empty, and Professor Slughorn is looking shocked at my appearance. He turns to Ash and Ron's table, then back to me, then back to them, and then, he gives a large laugh, holding his belly as if the joy is about to burst out from it. "Oh, Merlin, a twin. Ashford!" He chastised. "Why didn't you tell me you had a brother?"

I won't lie, that stung. It wasn't as if I wasn't one of the top students of my year, Quidditch captain, and dastardly handsome. But, apparently, there were people out there who still only knew Ashford's name and believed him to be the sole Potter. I wondered how Slughorn was going to react when he met my sister. I wished I could be there to see it.

The Professor rushed forward and shook my hand with vigour. "Apologies, my boy. I had no idea. Forgive me. If I had known, well, you would have certainly been invited to my little meeting at the train. But nothing to worry about, I'll just have to make sure I deliver your invitation personally for our next dinner."

I laughed, awkwardly, unsure if I really wanted to be part of these weird, cultist meetings. After a few more minutes of the professor fawning over me, I was finally allowed to go to my seat. But just as I was about to make my way there, I remembered I still didn't have a Potions book. Because, yes, that's right, Potions was one of the subjects I had originally dropped. So, how did I end up taking over the Potions position at Hogwarts when I wasn't even interested in coursing my NEWTs on the subject? What happened this year is a big reason why, as was the old, battered copy of Advanced Potion-Making that Professor Slughorn handed me when I confessed I had tried to avoid the class.

"Ah, not to worry, my boy. Cold feet, quite normal if you ask me. We all have it when faced with the possibility of greatness. It's good to see you changed your mind."

I didn't correct him about that. Not because I wanted to spare him out of my kind heart, but because it made the Professor love me more if he thought I was here voluntarily.

Draco barely acknowledged my existence when I sat beside him, which I found exceedingly weird. He liked to sneer quite a bit, or at least throw a jab or two. But, now, he wasn't interested in that or the class. He was looking a little lost, almost as if he was ready to bolt out of the room at any given moment.

Slughorn went about explaining his love of brewing and introduced the advanced potions to us, with Amortentia causing the most excitement. Love potions were a bit prevalent that year, and I think it was mostly Slughorn's fault. Back then, I didn't realise back then what I was smelling. Now, there's no way to confuse it. It's the thing I smell every morning when I wake up. Alright, that was too much. That's the last time I'll be all sappy like that. At least during this entry. It wasn't until Slughorn revealed the Felix Felicis that Draco finally was drawn to the class. He eyed it as hungrily as I did, and when the professor told us that the student who could brew the best Draught of the Living Death would win the tiny vial, he scrambled off towards the ingredients' cupboard. The rest of the class followed suit.

Everyone was there in a second. Hermione looked ready to elbow past Malfoy so that she could take her ingredients as well. Seeing the mess, I decided to open up my book and quickly read up on the potion. That was when I saw the inscription. This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince. Queer, but it was to be expected of a second-hand book. What wasn't expected, however, were the dozens of comments written all over each page. On the borders, on top of the actual instructions from the book. There were things crossed out, quantities changed, and sometimes, even other ingredients suggested by this Half-Blood Prince. Now, in another world, I would have probably called Slughorn and asked for another book. But I knew my Potions, even back then, and when I started reading what the book was saying, some of it started making sense.

In theory, at least. It wasn't stuff I could have come up with on my own, but now that it was presented to me, I could see the reasoning behind it. This was either a gold mine, or a very, very good prank from Fred and George or someone like them. But even with the Felix Felicis on the line, I was a risk-taker, and the reward was so very worth it. So, I studied the recipe, the ingredients, everything this 'Prince' was telling me. I wished I had one of my other books, something to fact-check my basic facts of each ingredient and see if it correlated with what the Prince was saying. But, I didn't, and so, I read, and as soon as the cupboard was clear, I made my way there and grabbed the ingredients that Prince had written down.

This was all or nothing, and the gambling angle made it all the more fun. While at first, I was doubting the Prince's words, delaying my potion as I wondered if I could still turn back and do it as the book originally said, I decided I had to either trust him fully or burn the book right then and there. The book, to this day, still sits in Hermione's small library in our room.

The first person who noticed I was doing things weirdly, was, unsurprisingly, Draco. The first time, he simply laughed at me, probably thinking I was messing up and not realising it. But, by the third time I went against the book's instructions, he realised this was very much on purpose. "Are you daft?" He asked. "You're doing it all wrong."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Nope."

"Yes."

"What do you care?" I challenged. "If I'm doing this wrong, then I'm not a threat for the potion, am I?"

"No, but if you blow us all up, I can't really compete for it, can I?" He shot back.

I shrugged.

Thankfully, Draco didn't snitch on me. I don't know how I would have explained myself if Slughorn suddenly asked me why I was following the ramblings of a narcissistic lunatic.

As time passed, Draco was starting to realise things. His cauldron was looking off from the descriptions of the book, while mine was perfect to the very last detail. A light bulb lit up inside my head, and I smiled at him, oh so very gratefully, before I went back to my potion.

"You're doing it wrong," I told him half an hour later, when he was in the middle of adding the wormwood essence."

"How so?" Draco scoffed.

"It's nine drops. Not seven."

"The book says seven."

I shrugged again, pushing it would have ruined everything. Draco didn't follow my advice, and his potion looked all the worse for it. My potion, on the other hand, looked even more perfect than the pictures in the book. Everything was set. And after checking the book a few more times, and doing the mental calculations of the effects of certain ingredients depending on certain potions, I knew what I needed to do. I was very patient, that wasn't a problem for me. It was nearly an hour later when I spoke again.

"You're doing it wrong."

This time, Draco simply looked resigned. "Yeah?"

"It's three hundred and fifty ounces of Powdered Asphodel Root."

Without even questioning me, Draco dropped in the extra amount, looked over his cauldron, and watched as it exploded on his face. Not a large, blast type of explosion that would have instantly killed him. More of those cartoonish explosions, where his face was covered in black ash and one of his eyebrows had immediately burnt to a crisp. I don't know how I managed it. I stopped the laugh before it climbed up my throat, Merlin, it was one of the hardest things I ever did. "Malfoy," I said, I was all innocence and concern as Slughorn sauntered towards us. "Malfoy, are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Draco's eyes went wild, he was starting to growl. I had to stop him. I still had a potion to finish, after all. Turning to Slughorn, I said: "Sir, I can take him to the infirmary. It's my fault. I should've warned him. There just wasn't any time. I don't understand why he would just drop a bunch of the powder without measuring it first."

"Liar!" He snarled. "You told me to do that. He told me to do that."

Slughorn spoke before I could defend myself. "Oh, dear. I hope it hasn't caused brain damage." He looked at Draco sadly, like he was already a goner. "Don't worry, Harry. You still have a potion to finish. I'll take him myself."

"I- yes, of course. Thank you, Professor."

When Slughorn left, I, well, I got a bit maniacal. I nearly ruined my potion because of how long I spent on the floor, laughing. Ron threw me a large thumbs-up, and everyone but Zabini and Parkinson were smiling at me. Except for Hermione, of course, she was too concentrated on her potion to care.

Slughorn made it back just in time to yell out, "Time's up!" Quickly, everyone stopped working on their potion and waited as the professor began walking around the tables. He never said a word, only tutting and grunting and, in special cases, raising an eyebrow at the poor concoction in front of him. It wasn't until he reached Hermione that he finally smiled. "Oh, brilliant. My word. This is very clearly the best one so far! Well done, Miss Granger. Well done, indeed."

Hermione, as she often did, looked directly at me. All superior and sparkling eyes, as if she was Dumbledore reincarnated. She preened graciously, like a cat getting its chest scratched, as she answered Slughorn's questions and repeated that yes, she was, in fact, a Muggle-born and that, no, she wasn't related to the Dagworth Grangers. Her eyes never left mine as she did so. But never did I lose my smile. And when Slughorn came around my table and his jaw fell to the floor, Hermione went white in horror.

"Merlin's beard," his voice was astonished, his eyes scanning every surface of my potion. The entire class started trying to get a peek at my potion, some even stood on their stools to get a better look. Slughorn was lost for words, it took him a while to speak. "This- incredible- I can't." His eyes met my own and he finally smiled. "Oh, you're good. Just like your mother. Merlin, I should have expected this. I am humbled. Truly, I don't think I could make a better brew if I tried! Well done, Harry. Very well done. Excellent. Marvellous. Perfect." He shook my hand so hard, it almost felt as if he was breaking it.

Hermione watched us like it was a horror film, her face frozen in that look of shock when the monster finally killed everyone and won the night as the sun rose behind him. And I had the gall to wink at her. Because this was my year, damn it, and as I graciously accepted my little flask of Felix Felicis, I was very thankful I had a mother stubborn enough to keep trying to teach me a lesson.

Thank you for reading!