Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince
Potter47

One
Po Turforti-Seén

On the fourteenth of October, in Harry Potter’s sixth year at Hogwarts, he met a boy, who just happened to be a third-year Gryffindor, that he had never met before. This boy’s name was Po. Po Turforti-Seén, that is. Everyone who met the boy just knew he would be key in the fight against Voldemort.

“Hello,” Po usually said as way of greeting. “I’m going to be key in the fight against Voldemort. See, I even said his name. And I’m not an example of author insertion at all.”

Of course, many of the students at Hogwarts had absolutely no idea what Po meant by “author insertion,” but they hardly cared. As aforementioned, Po was going to be key in the fight against Voldemort; this was all that mattered.

If you wish to know what Po looked like, he had light-brown hair (obviously his father‘s) bright brown eyes (obviously his mother‘s), black glasses (obviously his own), and a scar on his forehead (obviously resulting from a head-on collision with a bookshelf, when he was two); if you do not wish to know what Po looked like, I certainly hope you skipped over this paragraph.

In the sixth year History of Magic class, (which, as you know, Harry Potter had no possible way of getting into, with the failed O. W. L., but was let in anyway, because if he was not present, the book would not be called what it was called, and may well have been about some pillar of parental love), Hermione Granger did something she had not done since second year; she raised her hand.

Of course, this was utterly absurd, as Hermione had not gone a single day without raising her hand, even during the holidays. “Can you pass the orange juice?” she would ask her mum with her hand raised. It was simply impolite to speak out of turn.

“Yes? Miss... Grant?” Professor Binns said, pointing to Hermione after a few minutes.

“Granger,” she corrected. “I was just wondering... could you tell us the legend of the Half Blood Prince?”

Everyone in the class instantly awoke from their slumbers. The Half Blood Prince? Who the hell is that? they wondered, for there was no significant reason (that they knew of) to prompt such a question. No writing on walls, nothing.

“The Half Blood Prince?” said Professor Binns, as if he had heard wrong. “Why would you want to hear about that?”

“Because,” said Hermione, “the book’s called Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, and until now, no-one’s mentioned a thing about him! We have to do something related to a Half Blood Prince, or the book might as well be called The Pillar of Storgé!”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right about that,” said Professor Binns, shivering. “We don’t want something as dreadful as that... but the Half Blood Prince has nothing whatsoever to do with goblin rebellions!” the ghost whined. “Oh, well...

“The legend of the Half Blood Prince is a legend that has been passed down from generation to generation. There was a prophecy made, thousands of years ago, that foretold of his coming.”

The ghost cleared his throat, and began to recite it:

“In Harry Potter’s sixth year at Hogwarts, a mysterious Half Blood Prince with make his presence known... On the fourteenth of October, the boy will introduce himself to Harry Potter, and make no mistake... he will be key in the fight against Voldemort. He will have his mother’s hair, his father’s eyes, black glasses, and a scar on his forehead, (no doubt from a run in with a bookshelf) and will be named Po Turforti-Seén... but he is in NO WAY an example of author insertion...”

And here Professor Binns concluded. Hermione looked as though she was absorbing the prophecy completely, and was now narrowing down who it might be; there were many Po Turforti-Seéns at Hogwarts, after all.

But Ron looked at Binns disbelievingly. “That’s a prophecy? A bit specific, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but what is ‘author insertion’? That’s the second time I’ve heard that term in...”

“SHH!” said Hermione annoyedly, which is not a word, but most definitely should be. “I’m trying to figure out who the Half Blood Prince is!”

“Obviously,” said Ron logically, “it’s that Turforti-Seén kid in third year. Who else could it be? And he even said he’d be key in the fight against Voldemort...and that he wasn’t an example of author insertion! How much proof do you need?”

“And that scar on his forehead,” piped up Neville Longbottom. “It clearly came from a run in with a bookshelf when he was two!”

“But...” began Hermione. “But there’s supposed to be a big mystery! To discover the secret identity of the Half Blood Prince!”

“It’s not a secret!”

“Thanks to you!”

And the bell rang. Not that it really mattered. Ron and Hermione obviously stopped arguing as soon as the narrative returned, in their voices’ stead.

As Halloween approached, whispers followed both Harry and Po everywhere they went. Why Halloween, you ask? Well, for one thing, it was approaching. And for another, it was the fifteenth anniversary of Harry’s parents’ death. It seemed inevitable that Po -- er, Harry, that is -- was going to have some kind of showdown with Voldemort.

On the thirtieth of October, Harry wondered exactly why ‘thirtieth’ had two ‘i’s in it. What was wrong with ‘thirtyeth?’ Or ‘thirteeth?’ It puzzled him endlessly, and he could not sleep a wink. He decided to go down to the common room, as he was clearly not going to get to sleep.

The common room was seemingly empty when Harry took a seat in one of the great comfy (Such a nice word, thought Harry) armchairs in front of the dying fire. Of course, if the common room was really empty, there would be absolutely no point in telling the tale of Harry’s restless night. So, quite predictably, a voice surprised Harry so much that he jumped a foot in the air.

“What’re you doing down here?” came the aforementioned voice. Harry knew at once that it was Po, despite the fact that he had scarcely heard the boy’s voice twice.

“Not sleeping is what I’m doing down here,” Harry replied, glad to see a familiar face, despite the fact that he had scarcely seen the boy’s face twice. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you could use some company.”

Oh, that was thoughtful. He really is such a nice kid...

“Thanks,” said Harry, despite the fact that there was no way the boy should have known to come down.

“So,” said Po suddenly. “Tomorrow’s the night.”

“Yup,” said Harry, perfectly okay with talking of his parents with Po. After all, they were practically best friends. “Fifteen years.”

“I know how you feel,” said Po understandingly. “Both my parents were killed by a falling bookshelf. Dad was a Muggle, and Mum was a squib, but I still miss ‘em both, you know?”

“Yup.”

And so, the two kindred spirits sat together, in silent mourning of their dead parents.

“You know,” said Po, “I used to think I was just an ordinary kid. With a squib for a mum, and a Muggle for a dad, no one really had much hope for me. I was just normal.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“But then I got the letter, and--”

“Oh, I remember when I got my Hogwarts letter...”

“No,” said Po. “Not my Hogwarts letter. The letter. The letter that changed my life forever.”

“Your Hogwarts letter didn’t change your life?”

“Not as much. Not nearly.”

Harry was nearly dying of anticipation. What could have been in this letter? Not to mention; why was dying spelt with a ‘y‘ and no ‘e’? And why wasn’t ‘spelled’ ever used, instead of ‘spelt?’ Didn’t it sound just as good?

“Well?” said Harry.

“Oh, look,” said Po, gesturing at the table in front of them. “A purple polka-dotted tablecloth. Where’d that come from?”

“I dunno,” said Harry distractedly. “What was in your letter?”

“Oh, that,” said Po. “I can’t really remember. But I’m sure it must have been really life-changing.”

Harry’s heart sunk. He just knew this would have given them the last thing needed to defeat Voldemort. He didn’t know why -- and frankly, it made no sense whatsoever -- but he did.

“Oh yeah!” said Po suddenly, remembering. “It said Dad had been king of Greenland.”

“But Greenland doesn’t have a king--” Harry began, remembering what Hermione had said about the Provincial Court of Godthab, Greenland.

“Well, he’s dead, isn’t he?” said Po. “So, I’m the Prince of Greenland. And when I’m old enough, I become king. Unless Voldemort kills me, of course; I am a half blood, after all.”

Something in his words reminded Harry of History of Magic class. Now, Harry shouldn’t have had History of Magic class, because of his non-existent O. W. L. in that subject. But he was there, and he heard the legend of the Half Blood Prince. When Po had said Prince of Greenland and I’m a half blood in the same breath, it had registered in Harry’s mind that he had to be the Half Blood Prince, even if Greenland had the Provincial Court of Godthab.

“Po,” said Harry, “have you heard of the legend of the Half Blood Prince?”

“Half blood prince?” repeated Po, not pronouncing the capital letters at all.

“No,” said Harry. “Half Blood Prince.”

“Oh!” said Po. “Half Blood Prince!”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Never heard of him,” said Po.

Harry was about to tell the boy of the fate that lie ahead of him, but something stopped him. He knew what it felt like to have a prophecy made about you. No, not you. Him. But he did not think that Po would like knowing that he would be a key in the fight against Voldemort.

Of course, Po already knew this. Remember his greeting? “Hello,” Po usually said, as you remember. “I’m going to be key in the fight against Voldemort. See, I even said his name. And I’m not an example of author insertion at all.”

Now, author insertion aside, Po had practically told everyone in the castle that he was the Half Blood Prince. Even if he didn’t technically know, he still did know.

Harry shook his head, confuzzled, which is not a word, though it most definitely should be.

“It’s late,” said Harry. “I think I’ll go up to bed.”

Of course, the mystery of the spelling of ‘thirtieth’ had now been joined by ‘spelt’ and ‘dying’, so Harry had about as little chance of getting sleep as a sloth would, if said sloth were having a slumber party with all its slothy friends. ‘Slothy’ is, of course, not a word, but it most definitely should be.

When Harry awoke from his night of insomnia -- a statement that makes no sense whatsoever -- he wondered just how clean the inside of the antibacterial hand sanitizer bottles were. Quite simply, if the gellike -- which is not a word, but should be -- substance cleaned hands, the bottle would have to be as clean as a Greenlandish whistle, if whistles in Greenland were indeed clean. Or maybe, thought Harry, the bottle gets drunk from the sixty-two percent alcohol in the gellike substance...

Harry was shaken out of his reverie--quite literally--by Ron.

“What’re you doing, Ron?” said Harry groggily, a word which here means ‘sleepily’. “What time s’it?”

“Harry, you’ve got to get up! It’s Halloween! And guess what? Po Turforti-Seén just defeated Voldemort!”

“What? But the prophecy said…”

“Exactly! The prophecy said that ‘…he will be key in the fight against Voldemort!’ And he was! He just saved the whole wizarding world, while you were asleep!”

“But that’s ab--”

Harry was going to say ‘absurd’ but didn’t feel like finishing it. It wasn’t all that absurd, actually. Harry realised that Po had (1) been born at the end of July, (2) been marked by the Dark Lord -- as it had been revealed that Voldemort was behind the infamous Bookshelf Attacks of Greenland -- and (3) had been prophecised about in not one but two prophecies. After all that had happened, all that Harry had been through, the prophecy hadn’t meant him after all. It had meant Po.

For some reason, however, he didn’t seem to mind. If it wasn’t him, Po was the best person he could think of, after all.

And so the wizarding world lived happily ever after -- a phrase that here tells you to go read Po’s short book, entitled ‘Happily Ever After,’ on , and review it.

But first, be sure to review this heroic tale of Po’s bravery, in which he vanquished the Dark Lord while Harry Potter slept. Or maybe while he sleeped? Doesn’t it sound just as good?

Finis

Po’s note: Hello, dear reader. I’d just like to add a bit of background here: After I vanquished the Dark Lord at the young age of thirteen, I then went on to become to King of Greenland, and now happily write fanfiction in my spare time. Though, of course, I am not an example of author insertion at all. No, no, that would be silly.

Author’s Note: I’m sorry, I only just got away! Po Turforti-Seén had kidnapped me, locked me in the dungeon of his Greenlandish Castle and forced me to write his fictional story. Why did he target me? My name, of course:

Potter Forty Seven
Po Turforti-Seén

When he found out of this shocking coincidence, he forced me to chronicle his made-up tale of his time at Hogwarts, feeding me only cold cucumber soup during the entire time. And, as you may have previously read, cold cucumber soup is just dreadful when trapped in a cold dungeon.

The experience, however, has inspired me to write this series of short stories chronicaling the possible real explanations of the infamous “Half Blood Prince.” If you continue to read this story, you will no doubt hear of even crazier possibilities than the one you have just had the misfortune to behold.

I do this as a service to you, the reader, to keep you occupied until such a time that J. K. Rowling finishes the real “Half Blood Prince,” or that I am able to complete the next chapter of “Believe in Yesterday,” whichever comes first. (Hopefully, it will be the latter).

I also do this as a way of illuminating you on the sheer ridiculousness that some theories have represented. I’m not naming any names, but…oh, I must move quickly.

So, until I have such a chance as to post the next H.B.P.P. (Half Blood Prince Possibility), you may do well in reading my story, “Happily Ever After” which is indeed my story, and not Po’s.

Off you get.