LIII. Offended

"A mudblood's been petrified."

Tracey had been unable to sleep again, so she had been curled up in a corner of the common room, reading. She had been entirely absorbed in her book until that lout Marcus Flint stumbled in, obviously half drunk and reeking of firewhisky.

"How do you know, Flint?" a scrawny fourth year boy with scruffy, blonde hair asked, looking as curious as Tracey felt.

"Because I saw them carrying him up to the hospital wing, Carrington," Flint snapped.

"And why were you out? You're not a prefect," a stern looking girl with black hair snapped, glaring at Flint over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses. She was the head girl at the time – Devereux or Deveral or Devery or something, Tracey couldn't quite remember.

Flint grinned stupidly and lumbered over to the couch, sitting himself down near Theodore Nott, a Slytherin boy in her year whom Tracey thought was rather stuck up. They had been in the same house for well over a year now – they ate dinner at the same table, had all the same classes and socialised in the same rooms, yet Nott had never spoken a single word to her.

"So who's been petrified?" Carrington asked, cutting the head girl off before she had a chance to say anything more.

"Some first year Gryff," Flint replied. Nott cringed, looking slightly ill from the potent stench of firewhisky on the older boy's breath. "That slimly little mudblood who's constantly asking the Potter brat for photos. Can I have your autograph, Potter? Can I lick your shoes please, Potter? Filthy little mudblood brat. Deserved everything he got."

Tracey felt anger bubbling up inside her, feeling more than a little offended. How dare he use that word! Idiots like Flint were the reason that everyone thought that Slytherin was full of prejudiced idiots. She didn't mean to say anything, but Flint was sitting there with a smug, self-satisfied look on his ugly face and she just couldn't help herself.

"Stop using the word mudblood!" she snapped and suddenly the whole room's attention was fixed on her. So much for her plans to sit quietly and read a book.

"What's it to you?" Flint asked. Tracey noticed that he sounded more drunk and less coherent every time he spoke.

"Flint, shut up," the head girl snapped, then turned to Tracey with a filthy look in her eyes. "Davis, bed. Now."

Tracey knew that there was no point in staying around and arguing. The smell of drink was making her feel ill, and perhaps Parkinson and Greengrass would have finally shut up so she'd be able to sleep. She made her way towards the girls' dormitories, but just before she was out of sight she heard someone else speak.

"It's a pity the mudblood bastard's not dead," Nott drawled, causing all the older students to begin to roar with laughter.

Tracey shot him an acidic look, deciding that Nott really wasn't worth her time. Yes, Theodore Nott was a very nasty little boy.