Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter
I wake up every night gasping for breath, one word ringing in my ears.
Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood.
It's been a long time since I've been called that, but the word still stays with me. In my nightmares, in every glare I receive from pureblood families still clinging on to old beliefs, and in the scar on my arm.
The word brings back so many memories.
The first time I was called it: the confusion, the utter perplexity as the members of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, all except for Harry, exploded in anger at the derogatory term.
The second time, when I realized that I would be endangered just because of the circumstances of my birth. Realizing the danger I would forever seem to be in because of an age-old pureblood belief. Realizing that perhaps the magical world was not as magical as I thought it was.
Perhaps it was no different from the muggle world, but instead of the factors of inferiority basing on the color of your skin, it was on the "cleanliness" of your blood.
It was almost funny, the way purebloods believed themselves to be so superior when they could not get over their childish, racist beliefs — but the muggles could.
There were so many times I was called it, it almost didn't seem to be an insult anymore, until the war officially began and muggleborns were being hunted down.
Just like I had known all that time ago.
The fear I had felt when the Snatchers caught us. The dread when they recognized me. The overwhelming feeling that this was the end as we arrived right in front of Malfoy Manor and Bellatrix Lestrange answered.
And then pain.
Blinding, white-hot pain, and I was screaming, over and over and over again, and there was laughter, loud, maniacal cackling and the pain went on and on, and questions were asked, yelled, in between 'Crucio', but I wouldn't give, I wouldn't give.
And then the pain was gone and the terrifyingly dark manor disappeared before my eyes...
It was only after the pain had fully faded that I noticed the word carved crudely into my arm.
Mudblood.
The word would forever stay with me, and though it never faded, the sting did overtime.
Overtime I learned to be immune to those insults.
Overtime I learned to turn the other cheek.
Because sticks and stones may break my bones...
But words can never hurt me.