Chapter Text
‘and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice ‘without pictures or conversation?'
The quotation occurs to sixteen-year-old Harry Potter as he flicks through the old copy of Advanced Potion Making for what seems like it could easily be the millionth time.
He recognises the line in his mind as coming from Alice in Wonderland. He didn't have much to call his own at the Dursleys’ - so that school book was something he had read time and time again.
It was an escape. A comfort in the darkest of times in that cupboard.
Until he found out that magic was literally real and he could command it.
He hasn't spared much of a thought for Alice or life in Wonderland since then. He has his own magical reality.
Until this book captivated him, and the line resurfaced in his brain once again.
How wrong Alice was, Harry thinks as he caresses the aged pages.
This isn't like Riddle’s diary with its darkest of magic. It doesn't seem to be imbued with any magic whatsoever. Quite an ordinary, albeit well-worn volume. Parchment bound between a front and back cover. It's the Half-Blood Prince who captivates him, not some horrendous soul fragment.
It says a lot, Harry reckons, that he associates his darkest days with Privet Drive rather than any time he is being pursued by that soul-torn megalomaniac.
Throughout all that, there has at least been friends - Ron and Hermione. There has been family - the Weasleys and Sirius. He has had crushes - Cho, Cedric, and briefly Ginny.
Now there is the Prince.
Harry doesn’t know who the mystery man is. It's a male, he is somehow certain. A young man. Young once, at least, although this book has clearly been around a while, so he is likely an adult by now.
He hopes it's not an insurmountable age difference. Somehow, without having set sight on anything other than his words and penmanship, Harry is smitten with the Half-Blood Prince.
He knows it’s not reasonable. But that doesn’t mean it’s not real, he thinks. For him, at least.
It’s not exactly real for the faceless prince who can’t possibly know that in the future, a young almost-seventeen year old would be reading his script, falling for his wit and wisdom.
Harry re-reads some of his favourite scathing remarks.
Note: Borage must have been blind drunk when he failed to include this step.
Then as an aside to the potions theory, still more.
It’s as well that so many young men at Hogwarts this year are nice to look at, as they have little else to offer anyone.
The tone very much reminds Harry of someone, but he can’t quite place it. Whoever it is, it’s someone clever. Wickedly so, in fact. Inventive, intellectual and… passionate, he imagines.
Summoning a quill and parchment to his side, Harry dips the nib into the inkwell and begins to scratch it on the surface of the paper.
Dear Prince
I’ve come across your book that you left here at Hogwarts. I assume you don’t need it any more or it wouldn’t have been forgotten about in a cupboard at the back of the potions classroom.
I wish I knew your real name. Samuel? Joseph? Jacob? No, probably not. Pretty sure you’re a bloke though. Anyway, thank you for all you have taught me through your words here. If you could read this you could probably tell already that I’m nowhere near as clever as you are.
I picture you as about my age now. A NEWT-level Hogwarts student. I know that you’re not any more, it’s not realistically very likely. Your book has probably been sitting there for years, I doubt you’re a current seventh-year or even that recently out of school.
I wonder why you left it there? It looks like it meant a great deal to you, at some point. Unless you spent so much time annotating all of your school books. I’d love to get my hands on them if you did.
I would swear you have taught me more this year than all of my teacher’s combined. Slughorn is nice enough, but he’s just too frivolous to be of much use. He would be the best bet for identifying you, I think. Maybe he was even your teacher as well? I just can’t take the chance that he confiscates the book from me. Not to mention, if Snape ever got wind that I was receiving extra help in his old subject - he taught me Potions for the past five years, badly - he would murder me. He’s just looking for an excuse.
On a more positive note, Prince, your charms work is inspired. I can’t believe you came up with all of those spells yourself. I mean - you must have - my friend Hermione had never heard of them and therefore they’re not published anywhere officially.
I wonder what you do now you’ve left school. Something clever, no doubt. Charms work for the Ministry? Or Potions - you obviously know a lot more than the author of this textbook. Maybe you write your own books now. But no - if you did they would have replaced this with yours, surely.
I hope you’ve heard of me. I suspect you will have. And I hope that you don’t mind what you know of me already. I’m a bit famous, you see. It’s not something I would ever wish on anyone. But if it means that you might get to know me somehow, as I am getting to know you through this book, maybe that’s a silver lining.
I’m going to work out how to find you. To meet you. To thank you, if nothing else. The truth is, you’re the only one I’ve ever felt like this about before.
I know - it’s insane - I’ve never met you, I’ve no idea who you are, or how old you are. I know you would be a friend. I can just sense it.
Perhaps more than a friend, one day? You are a gay man - I think. Aren’t you? I wish you could read this and reply.
Anyway, thanks again for being the only bright spot in this shitty sixth year.
Yours faithfully
HP
Harry slides the letter inside the cover of the book and sighs. He has gone completely mental, evidently. Down the rabbit hole. His friends are probably right to be concerned.