Chapter 3. Mudblood
Harry was taken away. The whole room was almost shaking with students talking about what had just happened. Harry Potter was chosen as the fourth contestant of the Triwizard Tournament.
"Wow, someone really wants Harry to die," said Fred. Or George. Probably Fred.
"How can you say something like that as a joke?" said Hermione. "He could actually get killed!"
"Relax, Hermione, he won't die," said George (or Fred), putting an arm around her shoulder. "Harry can't die. It is physically impossible for Harry to die. The only thing that could kill him is if You Know Who comes back to life."
"And that's exactly what's been happening for the past three years…" she muttered under her breath.
When Harry came back to the common room, to Hermione's surprise, nobody welcomed him. Usually at least one person would say something or nod at him, but everyone went silent as soon as he entered the room. Nobody smiled. Everyone resumed talking but in whispers.
"You may think you're holding this school together, but a vast majority of this school thinks you three are fucking fake."
Whatever Malfoy had said in the past did not bother Hermione. Even when he called her a mudblood, she had gotten used to him and opted to translate it as an equivalent to "bitch." Malfoy thinking that her friends were liars did not surprise her. But thinking that other students - students that she had never talked to - not only were invalidating their challenges but calling them fake make her heart sink.
Wherever she went, she felt conscious of her peers and upperclassmen and their true intentions behind their polite greetings. She thought being true to herself was all that mattered but it didn't stop her heart from wanting to shout that Voldemort is real and he's coming after Harry.
Malfoy's words shouldn't have mattered to her.
His father had definitely heard about their punishment and reduced the assigned classrooms. He insisted that both Hermione be expelled and Professor McGonagall fired, but the negotiation concluded to cleaning two classrooms instead on five. Malfoy, although bitterly, gave in after a talk with Professor Snape, and cleaned the left side of the classroom. Hermione and Malfoy did not speak a word to each other.
On Tuesday, as she was eating dinner, someone tapped on her shoulder.
"Excuse me," the voice said. Hermione turned about and immediately recognized the voice's owner. "May I speak with you?"
Hermione nodded her head and followed the authoritative figure, and resisted turning her head to see Fred and George's reaction.
They left the Great Hall and walked in the dimly-lit hallway. Several (actually many) students stared at them.
"I'm sorry if disturbed you dinner," he said. "I am Viktor Krum."
"Yes, I know," said Hermione, unconsciously blushing. "I'm-"
"Her…mee-own..? Granger?" He tried.
"No," she laughed. "It's HER-MY-OH-NEE. Hermione."
"Hermione," he said. "I've looked for you."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because I wanted to know more about you," he said. "Sorry my English is not so good."
"No, I didn't even notice," she said. "Well, what do you want to know about?"
"You."
Hermione blushed. Then mentally slapped herself because she had blushed consciously this time.
"Do you want to go on a walk?" he asked nervously.
"Yeah, sure," she answered.
They walked down the hallway and outside the building. It was past dinner-time, so it was just after the golden hour and the sky and air cooled down. Shadows were retiring into the dark, and the students were also going back to their common rooms. Hermione and Victor walked in awkward silence.
"So how old are you?" He asked.
"Fifteen, but I'm in my fourth year."
"I'm eighteen. I'm in my last. Do you like school?"
"What do you mean?"
"As in, do you like studying, do you have good friends, that stuff."
"Oh, yeah of course. I enjoy studying history, and probably all other subjects. Oh, but I absolutely cannot stand Divination. I took it last year and it was the worst."
"You believe in magic but you don't believe in destiny?"
"Hm," she thought. "The two are very different. Let's put it this way. What time did you wake up this morning?"
"Around seven."
"And what did you do afterwards?"
"I went for a jog, breakfast, trained for the upcoming tournament, and met you."
"Your whole day could have been different if you woke up at nine. Or if you skipped breakfast. Or if you decided not to come to Hogwarts. Every decision and every action leads to endless possibilities. Choosing one of those chances and calling it destiny sounds irrational," she explained. "But that's just my opinion."
"I see what you mean. Interesting."
"You don't have to act interested," she shrugged off.
"But I am interested," he said, leaning towards her.
"How did you even know my name?" she asked.
"I've seen you several times, here and there. You're very easy to recognize."
"Is that a compliment?"
"I meant it as you're pretty. It's easy to spot you in a crowd."
"Oh," she flushed, again. She had ever only heard that compliment from her parents.
"And you seemed close with Potter. So I asked him."
"Oh," she said again. "Usually it's the other way around. People know Harry and then they see me."
"Are you two close?"
"Of course, we've been friends since first year. He, me, and Ron. We're technically inseparable." She sighed. "They're my best friends."
"It must be great to have good friends," he sighed, too.
"What about you? I bet you'd be the most popular man in school. I mean, you're already famous."
"Yeah well, when you're famous and all, people like you and want to be friends with you because they want a famous person in their contact list. I don't have friends, I have acquaintances. People I have to be close with. It's the price of prestige. I've convinced myself that my followers who worship the ground I step on are my friends and have to be content there."
Hermione didn't know how to respond. She had never had a problem being famous or having fake friends because she never had friends until Hogwarts. Fixing Harry's glasses on the train changed the trajectory of her life entirely. Another reason she didn't believe in destiny. But if someone were to live, stuck in a frame, would their loneliness be their destiny? She wondered.
"Well, thank you for sharing your honesty with me," Hermione finally said. "I hope you can make at least one friend in Hogwarts."
"Will you?"
"Me?" she giggled. "Yeah, sure. And I'll introduce you to other people, too, if you want."
"Not yet, I'm probably too unrelatable."
"Maybe," she laughed. She looked at the time and realized it was already 8:50.
"Oh! I've gotta go! Detention. See you around, Viktor!" She cried and ran to the building entrance.
Chapter 4. Malfoy
Unbelievable.
"Why did Viktor Krum talk to you?" He asked, emphasizing 'you' so that she knew she didn't deserve the attention of wizard legend.
"It's none of your business."
"Does he know you're a mudblood?" he sneered.
"Why would that matter? You and your family are the only ones obsessed with purebloods."
"You should tell him. He'll leave you before you finish your sentence."
"He's not that kind of person."
"Oh, so you know him personally now? Wake the fuck up, mudblood. Once he finds out you're nothing but an over-priviliged rat, he'll be so embarrassed he'll leave Hogwarts immediately."
"Mind your own business, Malfoy." she snapped.
"Isn't having two shit boyfriends enough? Were you that desperate for male attention?"
"I said, stop it, Malfoy."
"Fucking embarrassing. You're an embarrassment to Hogwarts."
"Say that again when you've actually beat me at something," she said. "You've always been in my shadow for years."
"No, mudblood, I beat you at everything, and the only thing you have left to make yourself less sorry is getting good grades. That's why you have to prepare double of what others do. There is no other way for you to prove yourself worthy as a wizard."
"You're delusional," she said. "I'm wasting my time listening to you."
Draco spat on her side of the classroom. He enjoyed humiliating her. Too bad there was no one to watch him.
That fucking hysterical bitch was right, however, that Draco was in her shadow, especially when it came to grades. He was always second place in class, no matter how hard he tried. Last year he aced all of his exams but still somehow came after her. She probably fucked the professors to get an extra grade. That was the only way to make it possible for her to get high marks.
And that fucking show-off. Year after year she would always be the first one to raise their hand when a professor asked the class a question. Sometimes she would just blurt out the answer. As if she was the only one who knew what the professor was talking about. After two years, everyone gave up and got used to her attention-seeking behavior. Now hardly anyone raised their hands. And that bitch thinks she's the only one who can make the class carry on. Delusional, she said. She sure was.
Draco took short glances towards her and tried to understand why Victor Krum chose her. There were hundreds of prettier girls. Even the girl Weasley would have been better. At least she's a pureblood. He imagined her based on his memory and analyzed her least pathetic traits. Long, dark-brown curls, her slightly tanned but still pale skin, her brown eyes, her height, long legs, body proportions… and her shit personality. Zero sense of style. No class. Her appearance may seem tolerable but her character canceled out everything and made her a negative two-thousand. Krum would soon realize the whore she is and go after someone in his league.
Thinking about her made him slow in cleaning the classroom. Stupid punishment. Her part of the class was finished, and she sat down with a sigh.
After two weeks of forcibly being with her, Draco noticed that she had four types of sighs. One was when she felt content, just like now, because her cleaning was finished. She should resign witchcraft and start a new business as a house elf. At least that way she would be treated the way she deserved. Second was when she was overwhelmed with a certain emotion. She and her boyfriends were having an argument over something lame, and she came into the classroom with a frown. She sighed fourteen times that night. Draco was about to transfigure a curtain into a noose until she stopped. The third was when she was planning what to do next. When they first started cleaning, she sighed every time before she did something until she figured out the fastest, the most efficient routine to get her to clean her part of the room within twenty minutes. The final one, he could not understand yet. Every time such a sigh came out he tried to analyze the context before and after the sigh. However, they came in sporadic, random moments with no particular warning or triggers. He was determined to figure it out, but he was not too invested because that would be wasting precious energy on human garbage.
Draco hurriedly finished cleaning and left the room. His personal brick-head bodyguards were waiting to escort him to his chambers. As always.
"The first round of the Triwizard Tournament is next week," Crabbe said. "Are you going to go watch, Draco?"
"Yeah, since there's nothing better to do," he said. "It'll probably be a big show where the final performance is Potter facing a life-or-death situation and miraculously overcoming it."
The two bodyguards laughed their asses off. The comment wasn't that funny, but Draco enjoyed the validation.
"Who do you think will win, Draco?" Crabbe asked.
"Honestly, I don't care who wins. I just want Potter to embarrass himself to death."
They laughed and rolled on the ground. Too much this time, he thought.
Crabbe pretended to wipe off a tear. "Yeah, there's no way Potter could survive such a big Tournament."
"Yeah," Goyle said. Goyle used very limited vocabulary because his brain could only hold so much information.
"Well, I'm going to bed now," Draco said.
"Good night, Big D," waved Crabbe. Draco hated that fucking nickname.
He was roommates with Blaise Zabini, who was probably the only one of his father's friends' sons intelligible enough to have a real conversation with. Zabini was tall, taller than Draco, and had dark skin. His curly, dark hair was cut short because everyone realized that long-haired Zabini made him look like a burnt mushroom. He had dark brown eyes and a sharp nose. His jawline was even sharper.
"You took longer than usual," he said.
"Yeah, because the mudblood had to be put in her place again."
"Thought so. She was talking to Viktor Krum."
"Slut."
"You're father would not be happy with that language."
"My father would not be happy if I used nice words on a filthy rag."
"Whatever you say, master Malfoy."
"I can't believe I still have to put up with her for two more weeks," he said as he threw his shirt off. "I can physically feel my life expectancy declining."
Zabini flexed his biceps. "Hey, I'm starting to gain muscle."
"Good for you, Zuchini," Draco scowled. He tried not to look at his own arms and abs reflected in the window. Compared to Zabini, he looked like a piece of chalk.
However, his pride could not resist looking into the mirror to see his god-made reflection, so he went to the bathroom. Draco was pale, almost as white as his dress shirt, and had hair almost as light. He wanted to look exactly like his father, stern and authoritative, but if someone were to look close enough they would realize that his features were generally slightly softer - like his mother's. Only his family noticed the difference, because at first glance there was a strong, undeniable resemblance between father and son, and people usually see his family eye-to-eye shortly and bow their heads with respect. Unfortunately, his perfect complexion was ruined by the scars caused by the crazy bitch's mandrake spell. It had faded well enough for him to take his mask off, however it was still noticeable if he looked closely. Luckily, nobody looked at his face closely. Not even Parkinson.
Draco hated Parkinson as much as he hated the mudblood. He had known her since they were six, and their families practically thought themselves as family and supported their marriage. Draco pretended to like her even if she stole all of his cookies and favorite toys. His and her parents thought he gave them to her as a sign of affection. But these few days Draco had had it. Ever since Parkinson started ovulating she had been throwing herself all over him. She even followed him to the boys' bathroom and forced him to see her flashing. There was nothing impressive to see. Neither her boobs or flat stomach rationalized her hideous face. Her eyes were always squinted, and even if she opened them they were still too small, her nose was stout and proportionately too large, and she always smelled like an old towel. She attempted to make out with Draco several times, and tried to set the mood for having sex by locking his bedroom door or going somewhere private, but to no prevail. He would rather fuck the mudblood than - no, he would rather sleep with Parkinson and have her children than imagine having sex with that whore.
He had to shower twice to make it feel like such a disgraceful thought washed away.