“Ginny’s got a point,” said Hermione, perking up at once. “We ought to check that there’s nothing odd about it. I mean, all these funny instructions, who knows?”

“Hey!” said Harry indignantly, as she pulled his copy of Advanced Potion-Making out of his bag and raised her wand.

“Specialis Revelio!” she said, rapping it smartly on the front cover.

Nothing whatsoever happened. The book simply lay there, looking old and dirty and dog-eared.

Hermione frowned and turned it over. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted something at the bottom of the back cover. She read aloud, slowly, “This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince?”

She looked up, suspicious. “Who’s the Half-Blood Prince?”

Harry, who was one second away from successfully escaping Hermione’s attention, blurted the first thing that came into his head.

“It’s me. I gave myself a new name,” he said, voice a bit too casual. “Harry Potter sounds alright, but this one’s got more… mystery.”

Ron blinked. “Wait—you can just give yourself a new name?”

Harry, delighted to steer the conversation far, far away from suspicious textbook scribbles, nodded seriously. “Absolutely. Why not?”

Ron looked thoughtful. “Huh. I think I’d be… Red Valor.”

Hermione made a strangled noise like a cat.

Still, the conversation moved on, and to Harry’s relief, no more questions were asked about the book.

The next day, while waiting outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, the Gryffindors were chatting when Draco Malfoy strolled over with his usual smirk.

“Well, well, if it isn’t His Highness, the Half-Blood Prince,” Draco sneered. “Tell me, Potter, was Mudblood Monarch already taken, or did you just fancy something with a bit more fake dignity?”

Pansy Parkinson laughed loudly while Crabbe and Goyle snorted.

Before Harry could reply, Ron stepped forward like a knight in badly fitted armor. “Oi! You don’t get to insult Harry’s royal title. The Half-Blood Prince is noble!”

“Yeah!” shouted Seamus from behind. “Better than whatever title you lot have, like ‘Pureblood ferret’ or ‘Inbred Royalty!’”

Even Lavender chimed in with, “It’s mysterious. Like a dark hero. Like a… brooding prince of pain!”

“Don’t mock his name!” shouted Neville. “It’s way better than Lord Moldyshort!”

“Shut it, Longbottom!” barked Draco.

Inside the classroom, behind the door, Professor Snape was standing still as a statue. He had been waiting—hoping—for a fight to break out. His hand was already reaching for his wand, ready to deduct fifty points from Gryffindor before the first curse flew.

But what he heard instead made his expression twist into something caught between horror, rage, and personal betrayal.

Because outside, the Gryffindors weren’t misbehaving—they were protecting the name.
His name.
Half-Blood Prince.

And Potter was wearing it like it was some… fashion trend. Like it was a nickname from a Quidditch magazine.

Snape’s eye twitched.

Did he deduct points for noise? Or award points?

He settled on glaring at the door like it had personally betrayed him.

He hated them. All of them. And most of all, he hated how much Potter was enjoying it.

“How… dare he,” Snape whispered bitterly to himself. His voice was tight. “That foolish boy. That arrogant, spotlight-stealing, reckless… Potter.”

He gripped the edge of his desk. “Why is he using my name?”

Outside, Ron yelled again: “Long live the Half-Blood Prince!”