Scout doesn't know the term mudblood, but she understands it. She has seen this sneer before, on the faces of white folks, as they talked about her father lowering himself "to help a Negroe." She knows the face, she knows this tone, and so even if she doesn't know this word; she does. She had hoped that getting this mystical letter from an tawny old barn owl that she could get away from all the prejudice that rang through her home like a brick through the window; but she realizes that she should have known better. Now, there's this boy, albino like white hair slicked back, with firmly pressed robes spewing hate at her even though they had just met. His two friends, or body guards, just guffaw at anything he says.
"I just want to pass please," knowing that an eleven year old from a "muggle" family cannot hope to defend herself against this boy older boy with magic.
This situation is strangely familiar. She will not back down.
"Did I allow you to talk Mudblood?" the boy replied.
"No, but if you got a problem, you can take it up with me Malfoy," said a voice from behind me. I didn't turn around, but Malfoy's eyes changed, from disdain to hate speckled with fear.
"Get out of here Potter, this doesn't concern you," Malfoy says. His wand is clutched so tightly in his hands that his knuckles have started to turn white. The hate still shines in his eyes, but I see can see the fear growing, like the men back home who had to fight without their white masks on.
"Well, now it does, so get out of here," Potter says in a tone that brooks no argument.
"This isn't over, for either of you," Malfoy mutters as he leads his followers through a throng of children.
I finally turn around and notice the greenest eyes I have ever seen. They are covered by glasses, shaky, slightly broken ones at that. I see my hero and all I notice are his messed up hair, and a small lighting bolt shaped scar on his forehead.
"Thanks," I say.
"No problem. And don't worry; I'll keep Malfoy in line this year. I know its hard believe, but not everyone is daft like him; he was raised that way. Purebloods—" he says before I cut him off.
"I know. Well, I don't know what he hates, but I know what hate is, and what it looks like. It's the same everywhere; and it doesn't matter. My name is Scout Finch." I say as I extend my hand.
He looks at me, calculating and a bit admiring. He gives me a true smile, the kind that crinkles your eyes and he reaches out and shakes my hand.
"It's a pleasure to meet you Scout. I think you'll do just fine here."