They were screaming, a family of three. The parents were thrown to the floor, their clothes torn from their bodies. These dark cloaked beings showed no pity as they used them, the man screamed, but his wife, the stronger of the two, cried silently. Her bloodshot eyes wept for the small baby bundled in expensive muggle made cloth who lie screaming in her crib upstairs. She felt her body being abused and invaded, but her mind was with her child, her child who was only three days into this life.
The child clutched at the air, her tiny hands searching for her mother's cotton nightshirt. Her hazel eyes were waterlogged and the portion of her purple blanket that touched the side of her face was slowly being soaked with tears. She didn't expect warm arms to wrap around her, nor did she expect the metal mask on their face to be so cold.
"Hmm, a mudblood?" Her tears continued to flow, but her high pitched screams ceased. "Best be rid of you, can't have filth like you growing up and stealing magic." The person cooed at her. His fingers stroked her cheeks and she caught one of them. It was slender, but strong. The skin was smooth and reminded her of the hands of her mother, though these were larger; they were a man's hands.
"Antonin, we've gotta cover the whole neighbourhood, we haven't the time for explorin'." Mulciber yelled up the stairs. The man raised his wand, the killing curse on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't get the words out. She could pass as his, the hair was too light, but her eyes matched his and her small round nose was similar to his own. He could tell them she's a halfblood, his bastard and bring her up in his home. He didn't understand why he wanted to, but he would.
She was an irritating child as she grew. No one questioned her parentage because she shared quite a few similar features and those that differed were attributed to her late mother. They didn't question her appearance, but they did question her personality. How could the daughter of the fearsome Antonin Dolohov be so kind, so generous and forgiving?
She nearly scared his mother to death when she asked for new pillowcases for their house elves. It took her grandmother two years to finally accept the child into her heart and the little bushy haired tot broke it little by little each time she tossed a knut to beggars.
"Hermione, those are mudbloods. They beg on street corners because that is the highest form of occupation they are qualified." The elderly woman lifted the tiny thing into her arms and fit her with a sharp look. "Do not waste your father's fortune pitying them." The girl understood the gist of the message, but she didn't know what made mudbloods different.
She played mudblood hunt with the other children when their families came together for tea, but she never really understood why they hunted them. What was so different about these mudbloods that made them worth destroying. This mentality was the exact reason her father shipped her off to Black Manor every summer. If anyone could teach her to hate, it would be the woman who created it.
"You see, dearie, this is a mudblood." Bellatrix pointed at the dirty man cowering at her feet. His hair was wispy, he had scarred bald spots from each time Bellatrix dragged him by the already thinning mess. He could be no more than 24, but he looked at least a decade older. "We are better than him, you're only a halfblood, but that sets you higher than bloodtraitors and mudbloods."
Four year old Hermione was still confused, why was he different? What made him a mudblood? First she thought perhaps it was skin colour, her father punished her for that. Discrimination based upon skin colour was a muggle notion that he wouldn't tolerate in his home. The dark bruise on her forearm and cheek meant that her first assumption was incorrect.
Her curiosity became so concerning that her father wouldn't allow her to attend Hogwarts with her friends. She turned 12 and was enrolled at Beauxbatons, her father said it held a purer population and she would enjoy keeping sophisticated company. She didn't, they didn't hate mudbloods like her family and friends did, but they also didn't incorporate them into society. Mudbloods were excluded from all activities. They could only be someone if they were lucky enough to be born with a surname that wasn't obviously impure. There were many halfbloods in France, but Hermione was suspicious of them. How could children of half magical and half muggle ancestry exist here if muggles and mudbloods weren't active in any parts of the community.
She began doing research, she learned quickly that the records of mudbloods always led back to the muggle world. They couldn't have regular sophisticated jobs in the wizarding world, they always ended back with their own kind; muggles.
These findings were significant in her pursuit to understand mudbloods, but they were useless in her attempts to comprehend their differences. Was being named a mudblood similar to being diagnosed with a disease? Was it truly in the blood? Should someone change their name and find their place in the wizarding world, how would they be told apart? It was confounding.
The Triwizarding Tournament was her chance for more extensive research. She was as beautiful as any of the other Beauxbaton girls chosen to attend Hogwarts for the duration of the games. She learned to tame her wild hair courtesy of her stepmother, who learned little by little how to love her. She wore perfectly tailored robes and danced as gracefully as a dove. Her well honed skills allowed her to woo any of the boys that could further her research. She began with asking an actual mudblood, Dean Thomas. He told her that the term mudblood was offensive because their blood was the same shade of crimson as her own. She considered this and it confused her further. Their blood couldn't tell her the difference either.
Her questions didn't seem to bother him, but he never had any beneficial answers. Next she attempted to collect information from a bloodtraitor, Neville Longbottom. He was very receptive of her attentions, but he was also an insignificant piece to the puzzle she couldn't seem to complete. As far as he knew, muggleborns looked exactly like them, there was no way to tell them apart if their surname didn't automatically give them away.
The summer came quickly this year. At 15 she finally had the courage to present her research to Bellatrix.
"What's this, dove?" She dropped a bag in front of the older witch. It was filled to the zipper with rolls of parchment, each held a date. Some held full body diagrams of mudbloods she drugged on the streets of Knockturn Alley and surveyed in full. They included limbs, organs, and the place she supposed that their magical core and soul rested.
"I have been researching mudbloods." She blushed a soft pink as the older witch's dark eyes watched her. "I don't understand what makes them different." Bellatrix rolled her eyes.
"Their blood is filthy, dearie, we've been over this two months of the year, every year." Hermione pursed her lips and scrunched her eyebrows.
"I know that, but how can we tell them apart? Their blood is red like ours. They look like us as well. They speak as we do and walk as we do as well. How can we tell them apart from ourselves?" Dark eyes widened and filled with curiosity. No one was ever so deeply interested in such subjects.
"Well look at it this way, if you didn't grow up with them and they have no proof of pure ancestors, they're mudbloods. Purebloods wear their family crest visibly for the world to see." She patted the cushion beside her and the young witch sat. "Even you, a halfblood, wear the Dolohov crest around your neck. You are a member of the elite and all who do not display their place in the aristocracy are impure filth."
"The Weasleys don't wear their crest, but they are just as pure as you are." The dark witch rolled her eyes once again.
"No, darling, they are filth because they are bloodtraitors." Things we're beginning to make sense to her. Mudbloods didn't have a family crest, that's how she would tell them apart while passing them on the street.
After graduation she began cutting mudbloods open. There had to be more ways than just looking for the crest on their person. She examined the blood and besides the presence of bacteria that wizards didn't have to worry about, their blood was the same. Their skin aged differently, the average wizard aged slowly and mudbloods grew at a significantly accelerated rate. They were completely the same, from the structure and placement of organs to the flowing of blood through arteries and veins.
She grew frustrated. How, how, how? What was so different about them that Bellatrix could spot them on a crowded street?
Her father found her in the dungeon, her eyes filled with tears as a new method finally proved successful. She was curled on the floor, fear and anguish clouding her hazel eyes. She could use blood and test it against magic, the blood of the impure crumpled under the force of even the simplest charm, it evaporated, but the blood of the pure or at least the half pure did not.
"Darling, what troubles you?" Her father was concerned, his heart ached seeing his only child cry.
"When were you going to tell me?" Her eyes filled with anger as she stood from her place on the floor. "When were you going to tell me that I'm nothing more than a filthy mudblood?" She screamed at him, her anger sent tremors through her system, her shaking hands balled into tight fists.
"You're my daughter, Hermione." She clenched her eyes shut and shook her head.
"No, I'm the daughter of some muggle." Her father pulled her into his arms. Antonin was conflicted, his child was a mudblood, but nothing in the world could make him kill her. The way he should have many years ago.
"I chose you, Hermione. Regardless of what anyone says, you are the heir to the Dolohov name." She nodded slowly, her arms finally returning her father's hug. "Do you wish to know of your true parents." She shook her head, this was the life she knew. If she knew their names and their faces, it would all become too real.
Hermione's research was successful. The Dark Lord couldn't find out though, so with a bit of blood magic and ancient runes she and her father were able to make her halfblood status official.
The final battle began, the war progressed slowly because the Dark Lord poisoned Harry Potter early own and he slowly died, leaving the light with no chance for salvation. As the Dark Lord's reign began she was given the greatest title she could ever hope for, Apothecary. Her research was the most important thing to her, she wanted to know and create everything.
Her father, who died in the final battle, left her all the galleons and material she could ever need and she rose in the Dark Lord's ranks to the inner circle.
Some nights she laughed over her whiskey because no one would believe that a mudblood could come so far.