Hermosa/wtm/

1

I accidentally vaporize my pre algebra teacher

"Oh Seph."

∘₊✧───===================───✧₊∘

Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.

“What is wrong with being a half-blood?” Harry Potter asked, pissed.

“A lot Potter,” Draco snapped back.

“There is nothing wrong with it!” Hermoine Granger snapped.

Draco rolled his eyes, remembering that the wix world is ignorant.

If you’re reading this because you think you might one, my advice is: close this book right now. Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life.

“Smart advice Seaweed Brain,” Draco whispered with a fond smile.

Remus Lupin who heard him with his werewolf hearing looked confused.

Being a half-blood is dangerous. It’s scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.

Draco nodded slightly but only his parents saw. They frown slightly, they didn’t want him to suffer, they knew he wanted to be preparing for the war right now.

If you’re a normal kid, reading  this because you think it’s fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened.

But if you recognize yourself in these pages-if you feel something stirring inside-stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it’s only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they’ll come for you.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

My name is Persphone “Percy” Jackson.

“No, it is Prissy Jonhson,” Draco muttered, smiling.

His parents smiled slightly at the name in the book, the name that their son loved.

I’m twelve years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York.

Am I a troubled kid?

“Yes,” Draco grinned.

Yeah. You could say that.

I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade took a field trip to Manhattan-twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.

All the Ravenclaws and smart people in the hall look like they wanna go to the museum.

Draco smiled at the mention of learning Greek stuff.

I know-it sounds like torture.

Draco let out a snort, causing most people to look at the boy in confusion.

Most Yancy field trips were.

But Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes. Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee. You wouldn’t think he’d be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only  teacher whose class didn’t put me to sleep.