Chapter 19
Hermione's eyes widened. Malfoy really was questioning everything.
"You're honestly asking me for a logical reason as to why I would consider myself inferior to you?"
He traced a pattern on her quilt with his finger but his gaze didn't waver from hers. "Mmm hmm."
Malfoy was dead serious. He wasn't insulting her. He wasn't lording his blood status over her. He was well and truly interested in what she thought about the rationale for his beliefs. Or… did he even believe those things anymore? He already said he didn't think she was dirty. And he asked her to teach him the Patronus charm, which meant he was admitting to himself and to her that she was better at some forms of magic.
Hermione had been wondering whether or not being in her room had affected him, but here was the proof. Their few interactions were causing Malfoy to question some of the things he was taught growing up. How interesting that he was asking her of all people. Then again, who else would he discuss this with? He would be treated as a traitor for even considering it.
She looked at him with a newfound respect.
The way he framed the question was an interesting hypothetical thought exercise, she had to admit. He, the pure-blood, asked her, the Muggle-born, to find a logical reason for his bigotry against her. Furthermore, he was asking because respected her intelligence, respected her ability to reason and respected her opinion.
Hermione was floored as she re-evaluated him. Malfoy simply stared back. Interested, but otherwise impassive. If he understood the bomb he just dropped on her, he wasn't revealing anything in his facial expression.
For years, she had often wondered herself why the bigotry against Muggle-borns persisted. Some of it was so inane and she didn't understand how anyone with half a brain could believe some of the things she heard in school. She had a few theories and compared it to what she knew of divine right rule and royal blood lines, with the Sacred Twenty-eight being the equivalent of royalty. But in the wizarding world it was much worse. There was an added element of racism.
After blinking at him wordlessly while he waited for her to answer, she finally spoke.
"Well, I can certainly see why the belief is so attractive. If pure-bloods are superior to Muggle-borns and half-bloods, then obviously all of that power, wealth and influence is deserved, without even having to work for it. It's preserved within a select few families. And if Muggle-borns and half-bloods want a piece of the pie, you can dismiss them as undeserving and keep it for yourselves. If pure-bloods aren't superior, then what's the justification for keeping everything?"
"Is that all you've got?" Anger and – disappointment? – flashed across his face. Malfoy expected more from her. "This is all because I want to keep your grubby hands off the fruits of my hardworking ancestors?"
She was going to blow this opportunity if she wasn't careful.
"No," Hermione replied slowly.
Yes, it was. But she should choose words that were less antagonistic, or a line of reasoning that was less antagonistic, and not call him out directly. She gathered her thoughts and considered the bigotry she had heard from him and others throughout her years at Hogwarts. Thinking about where to start, she rolled up the plans and set them on her desk.
"Not entirely," she corrected. "Let's take a step back. Mudblood implies that the blood is dirty, whatever that means either literally or figuratively. But for some reason, it's understood that the actual wizard or witch is literally dirty, which…" she held her hand out towards him. "You told me you don't believe that anymore. You always lay down on my bed. If you thought that was true you'd be Scourgifying yourself every time you left my house."
Malfoy's lips quirked, his anger already gone. "I actually did the first two times."
Her eyes widened. "You seriously Scourgified yourself after being in my house?"
"Showered and Scourgified the first time. I only Scourgified myself the second."
She was speechless.
"I had ten scoops of ice cream on me," he said with a mild tone of protest.
Hermione scowled and he laughed.
"You really believed that the things you touched here were soiled?"
"After the second time it felt somewhat ridiculous," he admitted. "There was nothing to Scourgify."
"Right," she continued. "You quickly saw how silly that is. And yet, I've heard comments about how dirty I am from some of your Slytherin classmates before." She also heard it from his parents, but she didn't want him to get angry and derail the conversation. "They may as well believe in Crumple Horned Snorkacks. I don't understand how adults can speak such nonsense to their children. There has to be a reason for teaching something so obviously false, doesn't there?"
She directed her question to him.
"Money?" he replied, irritated.
"That's part of it." She waved her hand dismissively, seeing it was a sore topic. "And yet somehow, it's okay to have sex with Muggle-borns isn't it? Me being dirty didn't stop you from being a creepy pervert."
"There's certainly a creepy pervert here Granger, and it isn't me," he retorted with a smirk.
"Whatever." She felt uncomfortable bringing up that memory of her changing in front of him. The thought of her naked before him made her feel strangely excited, and she shouldn't feel that way. "The point stands. Isn't it hypocritical to have sex with Muggle-borns, yet think they're dirty? That requires an ungodly amount of cognitive dissonance."
"Not necessarily," Malfoy countered. "It's called 'rolling in the mud'. Frowned upon in polite society, but known to happen."
Hermione made a face of disgust.
"Aunt Bella thinks it's disgusting as well," he said with one eyebrow raised in challenge.
Hermione glowered at him. "Well obviously she disapproves because she thinks the Muggle-born is disgusting. I think it's the pure-blood's attitude which is revolting. Regardless, it's hypocritical."
Malfoy continued. "Plenty of Mudbloods are physically attractive." There was a gleam in his eye. She had a sneaking suspicion that he was implying that she was physically attractive, and she blushed. "Pure-bloods just shower afterwards."
"Moving on." Hermione didn't want to discuss sex with him anymore. Malfoy didn't believe she was dirty anyway. "So if my body is not physically dirty, then what would it mean that my blood is dirty? I'm sure you've seen plenty of blood, being all," she waved her hand at him. "Death Eater-y."
His lips quivered, like he was going to laugh again. Amused was better than angry, or flirty, so she pressed on.
"It's red. It's gross. It clumps when it clots. It all looks the same. If I cut myself and added my blood to this ultra-pure Nott blood," she picked up the jar, Malfoy's eyes followed the motions of her hand and she swirled the blood around for effect, "it wouldn't look any different. Clearly my blood is not literally dirty."
He licked his lips and leaned forward slightly in anticipation. Waiting for her to reveal her next thought. She wished she wouldn't have noticed his tongue.
"So is it figuratively dirty?" she continued. "Such that it makes us inferior? And what would that mean? That Muggle-borns can't do magic as well as pure-bloods? They're not as capable? They're not as talented?" She looked at him to see if he was following her line of reasoning.
Still interested, but impassive. He must have come to the same conclusion already.
"I think anyone with a pair of eyes would know that's bollocks. You've seen enough kids at our school to know that's not true. And to think – they haven't even had the benefit of growing up in a wizarding house. I didn't know anything about magic until the letter from Hogwarts arrived. Muggle-born kids start at a disadvantage, but they certainly catch up fast enough."
He chewed on his bottom lip in thought, but his gaze didn't waver from hers. She could tell he hadn't considered that before. Muggle-borns had so much to catch up on, and they did.
"But pure-bloods have established Wizarding society," Malfoy explained. "They built it from nothing, they defined the boundaries, they kept it safe from Muggle persecution. They've maintained it over the course of hundreds of years, protecting it from Muggle upheavals, wars and destruction. Mudbloods are invaders."
His tone wasn't heated. She didn't know if he actually believed what he was saying or merely throwing ideas at her to see how she'd respond. Regardless, the rationale was similar to the thinking of populist anti-immigrant parties in Muggle Europe. She'd heard it all before.
"Invaders or immigrants?" she countered. "And don't immigrants help build, contribute to and maintain society? Their parents, as Muggles, may not have. But Muggle-borns sure do. And then their children will. The Patils didn't build Wizarding Britain. Are they invaders or immigrants?"
Hermione watched Malfoy process her rationale.
"But their ancestors built Wizarding India," he countered. "Their family contributed. Mudbloods stand on the shoulders of pure-blood achievements. They exploit without having earned their place. They don't belong."
"So if, after this war is done – which I am fighting in, by the way – and Wizarding society is free of You-Know-Who, then I don't belong?"
He studied her and said slowly, "You're an exception," he paused, traced the quilt pattern with his finger and then said, "To a lot of things."
That wasn't the conclusion she wanted him to make. At all. But even so, the way he said those words made her stomach feel like she had a flock of butterflies in it.
"What of the other Muggle-borns fighting for your freedom?"
Any mention of freedom would resonate with him, and he nodded. "They deserve to be here too."
"What about the Muggle-borns in hiding?"
"What have they done to earn their place?"
"Working and paying taxes isn't enough?" she swiveled back and forth on her chair.
He didn't answer. Malfoy's father didn't really 'work' did he? He pulled strings at the Ministry. As for taxes… Lucius Malfoy probably found enough loopholes not to have to pay any. She supposed he considered the occasional well placed bribe to function in place of taxes.
"Muggles can work and pay taxes too, but they don't belong."
"But Muggles don't have magic!" she said exasperated, and smacked her hand on her desk. "Muggle-borns do. Aside from that, Muggle-borns add to the fabric of wizarding culture. They compose music that you listen to. You like the Weird Sisters, don't you?"
She didn't wait for an answer. Everyone liked the Weird Sisters.
"Their guitarist, Donaghan Tremlett, is Muggle-born. Muggle-borns painted some of the portraits that are decorating Hogwarts' walls." She started ticking the points off on her fingers. "They wrote novels that you've read, not knowing their blood status. They invent new potions. They invent new charms. They run restaurants and pubs and stores and shops in Diagon Alley. They build houses and other buildings. They work in the care of Magical creatures. They play Quidditch. They work in Wizarding law. They work at the Ministry which – yes, it's a bloated, bureaucratic shit show -"
He raised his eyebrows in surprise and then barked a laugh at her comment.
"But the very function of the Ministry is to build, maintain and protect Wizarding society. Which Muggle-borns do. You don't need magical parents in order to be a fully participating and contributing member of Wizarding society."
Malfoy was silent, listening to her. "And what if the Muggle-born doesn't participate? What if they don't do anything? Just sit on their arse all day and do nothing?"
She was so tempted to make a jab at rich, entitled pure-blood brats living off of inheritances. But she knew she'd lose the ground she gained if she did.
"Do they deserve being here any less than a pure-blood or half-blood that doesn't participate?" she countered.
"They didn't have parents that contributed. The pure and half-bloods did." He stretched his long legs out on her bed, and then relaxed them again. Like a cat. Or a panther. She blinked and took a breath, trying to focus on the argument and not his long limbs.
"Okay Malfoy," she said, and leaned forward in her chair. His eyes followed her movement. "Let's say you have a child of a Muggle-born and a pure-blood. Like Harry. Is the child of the Muggle-born and pure-blood a half-blood?"
Hermione saw the corner of his mouth lift. He knew where she was going with this.
"Yes, but we would say that the blood line is unfortunate."
"Is the child of a half-blood and a Muggle-born a half-blood?"
His smile widened a bit. ""Yes, Granger. But it would be extremely poor breeding."
"So how silly is it that magical parents would be considered invaders but their child would not? In what way is that logical in any sense of the word?" She felt her voice go shrill towards the end.
Malfoy looked faintly amused. "You just squawked."
She exhaled loudly through her nostrils. "Well excuse me for being somewhat emotionally invested in this topic."
"Fair enough, Granger. I concede the point. Why else would I think Mudbloods are inferior?"
Her anger dissipated at once with his concession. "Well, while we're on the topic, what of marriage and lineage? I can marry whomever I want. Or not marry at all. Can you?" she asked.
Malfoy's jaw clenched and he returned to tracing patterns on her quilt with his finger, looking sullenly down at the floor. Clearly, that topic touched a nerve. He, along with most of his friends, would be lucky to marry for love. Most likely they'd have a few potential spouses they could pick from, but that was it. They had to get married from a pre-approved list. They had to have children. They had little to no say in their future.
Hermione should have known it would be a sore topic with him. Malfoy's Patronus was fueled by a desire for freedom.
"Pure-bloods are obsessed with lineage," she continued and his eyes returned to her, fixated on her face. "As if having some great-great-great-great grandmother of a particular bloodline has any bearing on how powerful a witch or wizard is. Pure-bloods have squibs at the same rate as other couples. And we've already covered how their children are dispersed evenly in terms of class ranking, and they don't monopolize the history of charm, artifact and potion invention."
Encouraged by how pensive he had been while she spoke, she wondered what he'd think about Voldemort. She paused for effect and he looked up at her, curious.
"You-Know-Who is a half-blood."
Malfoy immediately sat up at this piece of information and denied it furiously. "No, that can't be. He's the Heir to Slytherin."
Hermione noticed that Voldemort being a powerful wizard was not the reason he denied it, and she smiled inwardly. She'd take that as a victory as well.
"None of Slytherin's progenies could have married Muggles?" she posited. "All these centuries? It never happened?"
"It would be highly unlikely," he protested. "Of the Four Founders, he was the most adamant that magic was refined and power increased through generations of conscientious breeding."
"Your family holds the same ideals, correct?"
"They do," he replied cautiously, unsure as to where she was going with her line of reasoning.
"And yet Sirius Black rebelled. He could have married a Muggle if he weren't in Azkaban all these years. Your Aunt Andromeda married a Muggle-born wizard."
"That may be so, but she didn't marry a Muggle."
"True, but she rebelled against the pure-blood elitism."
She didn't want to bring up Regulus. It would be best that Malfoy didn't know he rebelled, and how Hermione knew.
Malfoy shook his head. "Rebelling and marrying Mudbloods are not the same as marrying a Muggle."
He was right. But they were going off on a tangent, she had to bring it back to Voldemort.
"My point is," Hermione said, grabbing a pen so she had something to play with while she spoke. Malfoy's eyes followed her hand movements. "Salazar Slytherin did not have complete control over all of his descendants. They would not have all believed in pure-blood ideology. If any of them interacted with Muggles, which wizards did quite often back in those times, it is highly probable that the occasional rebel would have married one. Even with the threat of being disowned. Some choose love and freedom over inheritance and familial obligation."
Malfoy met her eyes at her last statement and a vein pulsed on his forehead. She could see the fire in his eyes, threatening to burst forth. He hated the lack of control he had over his future.
Hermione continued.
"You-Know-Who's mother was Merope Gaunt," she explained, flipping the pen back and forth between her fingers. "You must recognize the surname. She was a direct descendant of Slytherin and had less money than the Weasleys." She looked pointedly at him since the Weasley financial situation was a cause of schoolyard taunts for many years, but he didn't reply. "His father, however, was Tom Riddle."
Malfoy furrowed his brows, confused. "Who's that?"
"You don't recognize the name because Tom Riddle was a Muggle."
"It couldn't be," he denied calmly. He was still protesting the information.
"Do you know who You-Know-Who descended from then? Has he ever mentioned his parents? Siblings? Where he grew up? What his inheritance should be? Properties? Do you even know You-Know-Who's real name?"
Malfoy had a ready explanation. "It's common knowledge he's descended from Slytherin. He opened the Chamber of Secrets, so there was never any reason to doubt that. And of course, he is more powerful than anyone, which is proof in and of itself to everyone." He paused. "But no, I have never heard of anyone discussing who his parents were. And no, I don't know his real name."
"You don't find that strange? With how obsessed some pure-bloods are with bloodlines?"
"You have a point," He waved his hand at her in irritation, seeing as he was one of the aforementioned obsessed pure-bloods. "Get on with it, Granger."
"Merope fell in love with Tom Riddle," she continued. "She gave him Amortentia because he didn't return her feelings and they married. After she stopped giving him the love potion he abandoned her. She later gave birth at a Muggle orphanage and died." She paused for effect. "You-Know-Who grew up penniless in a Muggle orphanage."
She stopped speaking again, letting him process that information.
"His full name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. Named after his Muggle father."
Malfoy narrowed his eyes at her. "How do you know all this?" He was still fighting it. It was hard to believe, she agreed.
"Dumbledore told Harry. Dumbledore is the one that found You-Know-Who at the Muggle orphanage in the first place and brought him to Hogwarts." Malfoy's eyebrows rose. "Ironic, I know. Do you still not believe what I'm telling you?"
He did look doubtful, so Hermione threw the pen down on her desk, grabbed her wand and cast the letters 'TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE' up in the air above her. Draco raised his eyes and watched in horrified amazement as the letters rearranged themselves to spell out, 'I AM LORD VOLDEMORT.'
His throat made a clicking sound.
"He'd skin me alive for knowing this," he whispered.
"You're already spying for the Order."
"True." The letters dissolved and stunned, he lowered his eyes back to her. "So," he replied. Still incredulous. "A half-blood."
Hermione nodded. "The most powerful wizard in contemporary history, aside from Dumbledore, is a piss poor half-blood raised in a Muggle orphanage." She swiveled her chair back and forth, watching him work through the details of everything she had just told him. "So Malfoy, what advantage can possibly be had from tracing your lineage back through ten generations of pure-bloods if it doesn't make a whit of difference to the intelligence, talent or power of your child? What's left?"
"Twenty-three generations of pure-bloods," he corrected. "That I am the product of." But he was looking at her expectantly. He wasn't arguing with her.
"Okay, forget the terms 'Pure', 'Half' and 'Mud' for now." She waved her hand dismissively. "Obviously, they're misleading and don't describe the reality. What is the difference between your blood, that was born of twenty-three generations of Malfoy witches and wizards, and mine? The blood of Hermione Granger, First of her Name?"
He laughed, but was rapt with attention. This was what he was waiting for.
"The only thing I can think of is blood magic. And I don't know anything about it because it's not taught at Hogwarts."
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.
"Blood magic."
He was interested, but slightly disappointed at her conclusion.
"Blood magic," she repeated. Holding out the jar. "You and your ancestors have been forced into arranged marriages for centuries so that you or someone else can perform some charm with your blood to shore up your estates, properties, heirlooms and financial holdings. You're bred for your blood, harvested for it, used to reproduce and then force your children to do the same. Why else would it matter? With the exception of a few like You-Know-Who, it's because of money."
Hermione returned to her original point, albeit in a roundabout manner. She didn't know what to expect from him now. Anger? Resentment? Denial? Money as motivation sounded more insidious now that they had walked through everything. Instead of seeing anger, she watched Malfoy's face drain of color. He looked like he was going to be sick.
Even as she was explaining her conclusion, she pitied him. Hermione had just told him that she thought his body and his life were not in his control, even without Voldemort. She was sure Malfoy felt the impact of her words acutely, being a Death Eater, forced to comply by fear, and his body invaded by the Dark Mark and an implant.
She sighed and looked at him in sympathy. "I don't know what answer you were expecting Malfoy, but that's how I see it." She placed the jar back on her desk. "I suppose pure-bloods keeping money in the family and regarding themselves as superior to everyone else makes what's actually happening to all of you more palatable."
"No, I-" Malfoy cleared his throat and looked up at her. His eyes were pained but appreciative. "You've clearly thought about this before."
Hermione nodded. "I have. Quite a lot over the years, having been the recipient of bigotry. I think your jar of Nott blood-" His lips twitched. "-helped me crystallize my thoughts better."
"I haven't thought about it at all," he admitted, running a hand through his hair and looking over at her bookshelf. Again, she wondered what he had read besides the book on space exploration. "Not until recently." He rubbed his hands back and forth on his thighs and muttered, "All this war for a fucking half-blood."
She felt a sudden urge to give him a hug, but that would be wrong. Wouldn't it? He wasn't a friend; was he? No. He wasn't. He was a spy and she was his handler. And he was Draco Malfoy of all people. She shouldn't hug Draco Malfoy.
This was so awkward.
"Do you-" She still felt like she should offer him some form of comfort, having dropped that bombshell on him with Voldemort's identity. And her thoughts about blood magic, regardless of whether or not there was any truth to them, were unsettling. "Do you want a drink?"
Alcohol was probably a worse idea than a hug. Alcohol could lead to other things. But she needed to give him something. Malfoy appeared to be struggling, parsing through what he'd been taught. Taught by people he loved and trusted. He was trying to figure out what he believed and what he didn't believe, and her conclusion had physically shaken him, whether or not he believed it himself.
If he did agree, then he would understand that he was being used, even if he wasn't a Death Eater. Hermione Granger, the Mudblood, with no wizarding properties or estates to her name, no familial obligations, no prestigious ancestry dating back in the Wizarding world, had more freedom than Draco Malfoy ever would.
"Maybe another time." He ran a hand through his hair and glanced up at her. "Thanks, Granger."
He rubbed his hand over his face in silence and stared at the ground. If she were in Malfoy's position, she'd be contemplating her existence, the things she was brought up to believe, her lack of control over herself and her future. He looked so dejected.
Hermione couldn't let things remain like this. They couldn't part ways with him so despondent.
Music often helped her feel better when she as in a bad mood. She got up from her chair and knelt by her CD player, briefly wondering how much of her music he had listened to and what he enjoyed. Would he recognize what she was going to play for him? He raised his head and watched her, eyes slightly blood shot from rubbing. After tossing a few of the CD cases to the side, she found the one that she was looking for and opened it up. Malfoy craned his neck, trying to see what she was choosing, but she hid the CD with her body.
"No peeking," Hermione scolded, looking at him over her shoulder with a playful smile.
She inserted the CD and pressed play. Immediately, the guitar riffs and synthesizer of The Who filled her room. Hermione glanced back at him and the corner of his mouth rose slightly. He recognized the song, and liked it. She instantly felt closer to him, knowing that Malfoy enjoyed the same music as her. She wondered how closely he had paid attention to the lyrics.
Malfoy was rebelling. He had recently found out that much of what he was taught wasn't true, and was betraying the side he was raised to serve. He felt alone and distraught, struggling with his break from familiar societal structures and from what he, his friends and his family all believed. And he was doing it alone.
So Hermione played for him one of the most famous rock anthems to come out of the UK. A powerful 'fuck you' to authority in musical form, where he could feel a connection and kinship with other rebels around the world, past and present.
Including herself.
She turned around to face him, sitting on the floor cross legged. They listened together while Pete Townshend yelled the lyrics of 'We Won't Get Fooled Again' into the microphone.
Hermione hoped Malfoy knew how much she respected and admired him right now. That she realized his struggles were difficult. She peered up into his eyes from her seat on the floor as the music blared and they listened to the lyrics together. A slow, conspiratorial smile spread on his face, which she returned.
He understood, and he appreciated her solidarity with him. After a few moments she felt uncomfortable, unable to hold his stare anymore. The way he looked at her made her stomach twist in knots and brought an unwelcome warmth between her legs. She averted her eyes to the side, pretending to look through her CDs while the song continued.
Teaching him the Patronus and having this discussion brought them closer to one another. She knew much more about him now, and he about her. Maybe they were friends. Was that so terrible? He needed one, didn't he? He had friends, but none of them were going through what he was right now. If she weren't here, he'd have to do it alone.
As the final guitar riffs blasted out of her speakers and the song ended, she glanced up to see Malfoy still watching her. His smile turned mischievous.
"Let's leave."
"What? Leave?" Hermione couldn't process what he was saying. She looked at her clock. It was 11:30 at night. "Where to?"
"Somewhere Muggle."
Chapter end notes:
Some fics have playlists to accompany the reading. I do have music that I listened to in order to get into the mood sometimes, but this chapter specifically references a song. If you'd like to listen to it, here's a link:
We Won't Get Fooled Again by the Who
watch?v=SHhrZgojY1Q
Appropriate for our British rebel.
The importance of pure-blood breeding towards performing blood magic was inspired by Sugar and Spice by inlovewithforever. Although I don't think it was seen as something negative in that fic. I don't really remember the details on account of that fic being a big exception to my 'not really interested in triads' rule. A BIG exception. Whew!
