Arabella Figg

The nicest person ever to call you a Mudblood is Arabella Figg. She's a sweet little old lady in her sixties, and she happens to be a Squib.

It's the day after you've told your parents about your engagement. It turns out Petunia is getting married, too (you don't like Vernon, whatever your sister says about his manifold virtues) and your parents want to have a party for the four of you. "To the happy couples!" laughs your father. Petunia scowls.

In the morning you help your mother make plans for the party. In the afternoon the neighbors come and visit, exclaiming over you and your sister (mostly you; perhaps because they haven't seen you often over the past seven years) and ask about the lucky men. That evening James comes by and the two of you sneak off for a walk and a snog.

Things are progressing nicely when you hear a scream a few blocks away. As one, you and James draw your wands and race in the direction of the sound. It's times like these, you reflect, when you're most thankful James is your boyfriend. He acts quickly, he fights well, and he understands that evil must be fought, wrongs must be righted, and the innocent must be protected.

It's easy to see where the trouble is once you reach the appropriate street. Wisteria Walk is filled with neat, square houses, and there is one that shines with ominous green light.

As you and James race forward, you see three black-robed, masked figures, a body on the ground, and a weeping woman brandishing an iron cooking pot.

James sends two Stunning Spells in rapid succession, but you're nearly out of range and they both miss. In the instant the masked figures turn and look around for the source of the threat, the weeping woman swings the pot with all her strength and hits one of her assailants in the back of the head. He crumples to the ground.

You start dueling one of the remaining masked men, and James takes the other. The duel is hard and fast, and you know you're fighting for your life, and that of the woman. This worries you, and you don't feel brave or glamorous. But you're sure about one thing—you had better win.

The Death Eater (for so you deduce he must be) isn't as fast as you, but his spells have the strength and clarity of sheer, brute force power. You dance out of range, but not before one spell hits your left shoulder with the force of a large boulder. You stagger from the impact, set your lips tightly, and start a complicated net of spells, like cat's cradle, that Sev taught you once. The Death Eater avoids most of the net, but the final Jelly-Legs Jinx breaks through his defenses, and his concentration is broken for a moment. You cast a swift, silent Stunning Spell.

You smirk in triumph as your opponent falls unconscious to the ground, and look around in time to see James's Death Eater grab the feebly stirring body of the one who the woman hit over the head and Disapparate. James swears briefly but fiercely before turning to you.

"The Ministry should know about this," he says, but then, too late, a couple of hit wizards appear a few feet away. "Or, Dumbledore," James says wryly, and Disapparates.

The hit wizards cluster around the Death Eater you Stunned and the body on the grass—you see now it's that of a man, maybe in his fifties or sixties, hair grey and clothes neat and clean. He has glasses, which makes you think of Remus for some reason, and you shiver. The man is dead. Not a scratch on him of course, but there wouldn't be. You can tell all the same.

"He was my husband," says the woman. She no longer weeps, but stares around hopelessly. She's still holding the iron pot, and she stands behind you watching the hit wizards. They're very organized, naturally.

"I'm sorry," you say around a constriction in your throat.

"I'd be dead, too, if you and your boyfriend hadn't come," adds the woman matter-of-factly.

You don't trust yourself to speak, so you just nod.

"How did you end up here?" she asks.

You think maybe she needs to talk about something else. "My parents live nearby," you say. "James and I were taking a walk—we heard—"

"So you're a Mudblood, then?" she asks curiously.

Shocked, you turn toward her, staring. You thought she was all right—she doesn't seem surprised by what's happening, and the way she hit that one Death Eater over the head with a cooking pot was truly inspired—and now this—

"Did I say something wrong?" she asks when you don't answer. She seems to find insulting you a welcome relief from the situation. You are angry with James for leaving you to cope with this on your own.

"My parents are Muggles," you say stiffly, unwilling to call yourself a Mudblood and unable to resist her naïve charm.

"Oh. Mine were wizards," she says, "and I'm a Squib. Arabella Figg."

"Lily Evans," you reciprocate, bemused.

"Nice to meet you," she says, and you think how surreal this is. "So you're not a Mudblood?"

That you can't answer. When you were a first year, you would have said, "No, I'm not," at once, very hotly. But now, things have changed. You're a warrior, and you're not the only one from a Muggle family. Doubt assails you. In all technical senses, you are a Mudblood, but you can't bring yourself to give in to an evil stereotype designed to undermine your personal sense of identity.

"I'm Muggle-born," you explain.

"So that's what they call it these days," Mrs. Figg says with an air of pleased discovery.

"Yes," you say.

"Excuse me: ma'am?" says one of the hit wizards. "If you would come with us?"

Mrs. Figg's expression shuts down at once. "Of course," she says woodenly, and you wonder if she let herself forget that tragedy while the two of you talked.

You reach out impulsively and touch her sleeve. "Good luck, Mrs. Figg," you say, "and I'm so sorry for your loss."

She blinks and nods, and then one of the other hit wizards pulls you aside for your testimony. As you explain what happened, you can't stop thinking about Mrs. Figg. She's so brave, facing those Death Eaters with no magic and only a cooking pot for protection. She's a Squib, and she's braver than you are—you doubt you could do much against the Death Eaters without your magic, much less knock one unconscious.

You're a witch, but you're not that courageous.