The first time I heard her name, I was eleven, and starting at Hogwarts.
I knew what she was when I was five.
My father, Lucius Malfoy, was taking me through Diagon Alley to purchase those pretty, and fluffy slippers from 'Feed Your Rich Pieds'. He'd seen Muggles walking by. I watched as his eyes narrowed and his mouth form out a name. "Mudbloods," my father said in a despised voice; and then he spit. Now, yes, I'd seen him spit before. He'd spit a dollop of flem when he was reading the newspaper, and he'd spit when he claimed Mother had poisoned his morning tea. It was different this time. He'd slammed his cane and smacked a muggle passing by. I'd supposed he was angry as I'd never gotten my slippers. Father said he couldn't stand the stench of the Muggles, and so, we left.
The word 'Mudblood' had more occurrences as I got older, a common term of hate. Hate, is something daft old wizards like Dumbledore say is only taught. They say it's a progressive lesson from a child's parents. All right. So maybe I'd learned the right names from Father. The hate for Mudbloods was always in me; Muggles would always be a waste of flesh and tax money.
Hermione Granger is the perfect example of a Mudblood. Thinking she's the greatest witch since Ravenclaw, she parades around like a queen. She proves how Muggles have done nothing but read and repeat what famous wizards had written. I mean, take Tolkien, Einstein, Dr. Seuss, and Da Vinci… They were some of many great wizards of intellect, wizards whom muggles have overpowered and taken ideas and reproduced as their own. (Shakespeare doesn't count. He was a squib.)
Hate, in its every glorious jewel and piece of narrow-mindedness, is handed down through every generation like a family heirloom. I should've treasured mine with more care! Instead, I wore it down a back alley, got jumped, and no longer possess it.
_______
Hope that's okay. I know it's really very short. If this does do well, I'll try my best to write longer chapters...Review!!