Chapter 31: Mudblood

For the next few days, Harry spent most of his time trying to avoid people he didn't normally talk to. Dodging Lockhart was easy enough, as we would rush out of the class as soon as the bell rang. But it was harder to avoid Colin, who seemed to have memorized Harry's schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, "All right, Harry?" six or seven times a day and hear, "Hello, Colin," back, however exasperated Harry sounded when he said it.

I liked to start my mornings early, even when I didn't have class. I took the time this morning to figure out my hair. I had spoken to a couple of the older girls in my house, Angelina and Alicia particularly, and they had been teaching me things that I could do with my hair, as they had almost the same texture of hair as mine.

This morning I tried a couple of French braids. I groaned as I had the hardest time getting them right. After a good thirty minutes, I admitted defeat and reluctantly allowed Parvati, who had also awakened early, to put two braids in my hair, to which she did quickly and flawlessly.

Afterwards, I got dressed and decided to write Mama and Papa a quick letter.

Dear Mama and Papa,

I hope this letter finds you both well. It's hard to believe I've been back at school for a few weeks already! Everything is as magical as ever, and I feel so lucky to be here. You'd love the autumn here, Mama—Hogwarts looks absolutely breathtaking surrounded by all the changing leaves.

Lessons have been going wonderfully. Professor McGonagall is as brilliant as ever, and I'm getting better at Transfiguration every day. Just last week, I managed to turn a beetle into a perfectly round button on my first try! (Ron said it looked too shiny to be a real button, but I think he's just being jealous because his didn't turn out at all—his wand is still broken, poor thing.) Herbology is fascinating as always; we've started working with Mandrakes, which are amazing plants but very stubborn and loud! I've been keeping up with all my reading, of course, and I've made sure to take notes on everything.

Ron and Harry are doing well, though they've already gotten into trouble (you wouldn't believe me if I told you how they arrived at school—don't worry, everyone is safe). Harry is still Harry, quiet and modest despite all the attention he gets, and he's been throwing himself into Quidditch practice lately. Ron, well…he's as exasperating as ever but also so much fun to be around. He has a knack for making everyone laugh, even when we're all exhausted. I just wish his wand wasn't in such bad shape; he struggles with spells because of it, but he's determined to keep trying. I think he's embarrassed to ask his parents for a new one, but I told him it's nothing to be ashamed of. He and Harry are always keeping me on my toes, but I can't imagine this place without them.

Oh, I almost forgot—our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is Gilderoy Lockhart! He's famous for all his adventures, and you wouldn't believe how many awards he's won. He's… well, let's just say he's very confident in his abilities, though some of his lessons have been rather chaotic. (You should have seen the Cornish pixies he let loose in class—what a disaster!) He's written most of our textbooks this year, and I can't help but admire all the things he claims to have done. Harry and Ron don't seem quite as impressed, but I think they're just being overly critical.

I miss you both so much. I've been trying to write regularly, but it's hard not to get swept up in everything happening here. Please let me know how things are going back home. Is Papa still tinkering with that car? Have you tried that new café you mentioned before I left? I hope you're both taking time to relax.

Sending you all my love,

Hermione

P.S. Can we talk about what I learned about magic and teeth?

I set the letter on my dresser, quickly dressing before heading down to the common room. To my surprise, Ron was already there, bent over a piece of parchment, his quill scratching furiously. For a moment, I wondered if he was doing homework—though, let's be honest, the odds were slim.

"You're up early on a weekend," I said, crossing my arms with a smirk.

"Harry got ambushed by Wood, woke me up in the process," Ron grumbled, glancing up at me. Then his face brightened. "Just finished a letter for Bill. Want to walk with me to mail it?"

"Sure," I replied, my mood softening. "Just let me grab my letter to Mama and Papa." I dashed back to my dorm and returned, clutching my letter along with a well-worn copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

We strolled to the Owlery together, the soft morning sun making the castle glow. Inside, the scent of feathers and owl droppings filled the air as we selected two school owls to deliver our letters. For some reason, Hedwig refused to take Ron's. With that done, we decided to head down to the Quidditch pitch, grabbing breakfast to-go along the way.

By the time we reached the stands, Harry was still on the ground with Wood, the latter animatedly gesturing as if explaining a battle plan. Ron cupped his hands over his mouth. "Aren't you finished yet?"

"Haven't even started," Harry yelled back, his voice tinged with annoyance. "Wood's been teaching us new moves."

Ron laughed. "Wood is intense," he said to me, shaking his head.

"It's like he lives and breathes Quidditch." I said. Honestly I couldn't understand what was the appeal of such a dangerous sport.

"Oh, just like you live and breathe books?" Ron retorted with a cheeky grin.

"I do not live and breathe books!" I huffed, narrowing my eyes.

"Oh, sorry," he teased, tossing a crust from his toast at me. "You live and breathe books and Lockhart."

I swatted the crust away, laughing despite myself. "You're impossible, Ron!" I playfully smacked him with my book, rolling my eyes as he chuckled.

Our lighthearted moment was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a camera shutter. Turning, we saw Colin Creevey a few rows up, snapping photos with reckless enthusiasm.

"That kid is bloody mental," Ron muttered under his breath.

"Look this way, Harry!" Colin shouted, his small face lit with excitement as he clicked away. Harry, clearly bewildered, glanced at us before resuming practice.

Before I could comment, my eyes caught movement near the pitch. A group of figures in green robes was approaching. I frowned. "Gets worse from here. What's Malfoy doing with them? And with a broom?"

Ron's face darkened. "Let's go," he said, grabbing my arm as we bolted from the stands and made our way onto the field.

When we reached the pitch, we were just in time to see the Slytherin and Gryffindor teams squaring off, with Malfoy standing smugly among the green-clad players.

"What's happening? Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?" Ron demanded, pointing at Malfoy.

"I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley," Malfoy drawled, his voice oozing arrogance. "Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father bought our team."

I squinted at the broom handle nearest to me. Nimbus 2001. Even I, with my limited interest in Quidditch, knew how exceptional those brooms were. The Gryffindor players' expressions were a mix of awe and disdain, and I could tell they were trying hard not to show they were impressed.

"Good, aren't they?" Malfoy continued smugly. "Perhaps the Gryffindor team can raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives. I expect a museum would bid for them."

The Slytherins roared with laughter.

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," I snapped, glaring at Malfoy. "They got in on pure talent."

Harry and Ron grinned at my comment, while Fred and George burst out laughing. But Malfoy's smirk twisted into a sneer, his pale face reddening with anger.

"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spat.

The words hit me like a slap. I froze, my mind racing to process the insult. The laughter died instantly. Fred and George surged forward, fury written across their faces, but Ron acted first.

"How dare you!" Ron bellowed, pulling out his wand and pointing it straight at Malfoy. "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy! Eat slugs!"

A loud bang echoed across the pitch, and a jet of green light shot out of Ron's wand—but instead of hitting Malfoy, it backfired. The spell hit Ron square in the stomach, and he crumpled to the ground, clutching his middle.

"Ron! Ron, are you all right?" I cried, kneeling beside him.

Ron sat up slowly, his face a ghastly shade of green. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead of words, a stream of slimy, wriggling slugs poured out.

"Oh no!" I gasped, horrified. Around us, some students were laughing, while others looked genuinely concerned.

"We'd better get him to Hagrid's—it's nearest," Harry said, helping Ron to his feet.

Ron heaved again, another torrent of slugs spilling out.

"What happened? Is he ill? Can't you cure him?" Colin Creevey's eager voice piped up, his camera poised to capture the moment.

"Can you hold him still, Harry?" Colin added, ready to snap a photo.

"Not now, Colin!" I snapped, glaring at him as Harry and I half-carried Ron toward Hagrid's hut. My heart raced as I tried to think of a way to help. Poor Ron—he didn't deserve this, especially after standing up for me.

As we approached Hagrid's hut, I silently vowed that Malfoy would get what was coming to him.

"Nearly there, Ron," I said gently, trying to sound reassuring despite the fact that Ron looked like he was about to keel over. His face was an alarming shade of green, and with every step, he burped up another slug. "You'll be all right in a minute, almost there..."

Hagrid's hut was just ahead, its familiar thatched roof and enormous pumpkins coming into view. Relief washed over me at the thought of getting Ron inside, but before we could reach the door, it suddenly swung open. Professor Lockhart emerged, his robes practically shimmering in the sunlight, his expression as self-satisfied as ever.

"Quick, behind here," Harry hissed, grabbing Ron's arm and pulling us toward a nearby bush. I hesitated for a moment, thinking it wasn't the best hiding spot considering how close we were to the hut, but I didn't want to leave Harry and Ron on their own. I ducked down, steadying Ron as another revolting slug slid out of his mouth with a wet splat.

Lockhart's voice carried easily over the yard, just as pompous and grating as always. "It's a simple matter if you know what you're doing!" he proclaimed, gesturing theatrically at Hagrid. "If you need help, you know where I am! I'll let you have a copy of my book. I'm surprised you haven't already got one—I'll sign one tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!"

He waved dramatically and strode off toward the castle, his turquoise robes billowing behind him like he thought he was in some sort of grand parade. I rolled my eyes. Harry sighed. Ron gagged.

Once Lockhart was out of sight, we hurried to Hagrid's door. Harry knocked, and the door opened almost instantly. Hagrid's massive form filled the doorway, and he looked a bit grumpy—until he saw it was us.

"Bin wonderin' when you'd come ter see me—come in, come in," he said, stepping aside. "Thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again—right pain, that one."

Harry and I helped Ron stumble inside and lowered him into Hagrid's enormous wooden chair. Fang bounded over, his tail wagging furiously as he slobbered all over my robes. Normally, I'd have been annoyed, but I was too worried about Ron to care.

We explained what had happened as Ron bent over the bucket Hagrid placed in front of him, retching up another slug with a sickening squelch. Hagrid didn't seem fazed by the mess, though.

"Better out than in," he said cheerfully, clapping Ron on the shoulder. "Get 'em all up, Ron."

I winced as Ron burped up yet another slug. "I don't think there's anything to do except wait for it to stop," I said, feeling helpless. "That's a difficult curse to manage at the best of times, but with a broken wand…" I trailed off, biting my lip.

Ron groaned miserably, his face pale and sweaty. I gently patted his back, wishing there was something more I could do. The bucket was already halfway full, and I started to worry we'd need another one.

"What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?" Harry asked, scratching Fang behind the ears.

Hagrid let out a low growl as he moved a half-plucked rooster off his table and set down a large, chipped teapot. "Givin' me advice on gettin' kelpies outta a well," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Like I don' know how ter deal with kelpies. An' bangin' on about some banshee he banished. If one word o' it was true, I'll eat my kettle."

Ron managed a weak laugh before doubling over again, expelling more slugs into the bucket. The sound was awful, wet and squishy, and I couldn't help but cringe.

"I think you're being a bit unfair," I said, crossing my arms. "Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for the job."

Hagrid snorted. "He was the only man for the job," he said flatly. "An' I mean the only one. It's gettin' harder an' harder ter find anyone for the Defense job. People're startin' ter think it's jinxed. No one's lasted long fer years. So…" He turned his attention to Ron, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. "Who were yeh tryin' ter curse?"

"Malfoy called Hermione something," Harry said, glancing at me. His tone was quiet but firm. "It must've been really bad, because everyone went wild."

"It was bad," Ron managed to croak, his voice hoarse from all the retching. "Malfoy called her a Mudblood, Hagrid."

The room seemed to go still. Hagrid's face darkened, his expression a mix of anger and disgust. "He didn'!" he growled.

"He did," I said softly, nodding. My voice wavered slightly, and I could feel tears welling up. I didn't fully understand the word, but I knew it was vile.

"It's about the most insulting thing he could think of," Ron said bitterly, spitting another slug into the bucket. "Mudblood's a foul name for someone who's Muggle-born. You know, non-magic parents."

That hurt. It hurt in a way I hadn't expected, cutting deeper than any insult I'd ever endured. The word echoed in my mind, sharp and cruel, like it was designed to sting and remind me I didn't belong. It brought back a memory I'd tried to bury—the time my mother and I visited one of her old college friends in New York. I couldn't have been more than eight years old. We were walking down the street when a stranger shouted something vile at us, a slur I didn't understand but could feel was filled with hate. I'd looked up at my mother, confused and scared, and she'd quickly ushered me away, her hand gripping mine tightly. Later, she explained through tears what the word meant, and though I was young, I could sense how deeply it had hurt her. Seeing my mother cry was one of the most heartbreaking things I'd ever experienced.

Now, hearing Malfoy sneer that awful word, I felt the same fear, the same helplessness. My chest tightened, and tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. I'd always known I wasn't like the other students, not really. I didn't grow up hearing bedtime stories about broomsticks or knowing the names of famous wizards. I had to work twice as hard just to keep up, and sometimes I felt like I was constantly trying to prove that I deserved to be here. But hearing that word, spat out with so much venom, it was like Malfoy had taken all my insecurities and turned them into a weapon. It was more than an insult—it was a declaration that no matter how much I achieved, people like him would always see me as less than. It made me truly wonder if I belonged.

"There are some wizards, like Malfoy's family, who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blood," Ron continued angrily. "I mean, the rest of us know it doesn't make any difference at all. Look at Neville. He's pure-blood, and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up."

He burped up another slug, catching it in his hand and tossing it into the bucket. Hagrid shook his head, his large hand resting on my shoulder.

"An' they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can't do," he said gruffly, his voice warm with pride.

I managed a small smile, though my heart still ached. "It's a disgusting thing to call someone," Ron muttered, wiping his mouth. "Dirty blood. Common blood. It's ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn't married Muggles, we'd've died out."

I couldn't hold back the tears any longer, and they spilled over, hot and fast. I felt Hagrid's large hand give my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but I just wanted to crawl into bed and hide.

"Well, I don't blame yeh fer tryin' ter curse him, Ron," Hagrid said firmly, his voice cutting through my thoughts. "But maybe it's a good thing yer wand backfired. Spect Lucius Malfoy would've come marchin' up ter the school if yeh'd cursed his son. Least yer not in trouble."

We stayed at Hagrid's a bit longer, giving Ron time to recover. The slugs seemed to be slowing down, though every now and then he'd burp and grimace as another slimy one escaped into the bucket. Once we were sure he wasn't going to spew anymore, at least for now, we decided to head back up to the castle. The walk was quiet, save for the occasional unfortunate gurgle from Ron and a few muttered complaints. Twice along the way, he burped up more slugs, and I winced each time. Poor Ron. It was hard not to feel bad for him, but part of me wished he'd been more careful. A faulty wand and a hot temper were not a good mix.

Also, I couldn't stop replaying Malfoy's words in my head.

We were almost at the Great Hall for lunch when we were intercepted by Professor McGonagall. My heart skipped a beat, and I glanced nervously at Ron, hoping against hope that he wouldn't burp up another slug in front of her. That would be nearly impossible to explain.

"There you are, Potter, Weasley," she said, her sharp eyes fixed on the boys. "You will both do your detentions this evening."

"What're we doing, Professor?" Ron asked, his face pale, and not just from the slug ordeal.

"You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch," she said matter-of-factly. "And no magic, Weasley. Elbow grease."

Ron groaned loudly, slumping his shoulders. "Of course," he muttered, but he nodded anyway, clearly too tired to argue.

"And you, Potter," she continued, turning to Harry, "will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail."

"Oh no—Professor, can't I go and do the trophy room, too?" Harry said desperately, his eyes widening in alarm.

"Certainly not," McGonagall said firmly. "Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o'clock sharp, both of you."

I tried my best not to smile too smugly as Harry and Ron shuffled into the Great Hall, looking thoroughly defeated. Honestly, after their little stunt with the car, they deserved this. It wasn't just dangerous—it was illegal, and I wasn't going to pretend they didn't need to face the consequences.

"Filch'll have me there all night," Ron groaned as he collapsed onto the bench, resting his head on the table. "No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in that room. I'm no good at Muggle cleaning."

"I'd swap anytime," Harry said, shaking his head. "I've had loads of practice with the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart's fan mail... he'll be a nightmare..."

The common room was quieter than usual that evening. Most of the Gryffindors were either studying or playing games by the fire. I sat curled up in one of the squashy armchairs, a Potions book open on my lap, but I couldn't concentrate. Harry and Ron were still in detention, and I couldn't help but worry about what they were up to, especially with how careless they could sometimes be.

Ginny hesitated near the armchairs, clutching her bag to her chest. Her eyes darted around the room nervously, and I gave her a warm smile. "Ginny, come sit," I said, patting the seat beside me.

She perched on the edge of the armchair, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. "Where are Harry and Ron?" she asked quietly, her cheeks faintly pink.

"Detention," I said, closing my book with a soft sigh. "For the whole car situation"

"Oh," Ginny said, her voice barely above a whisper. She nodded but didn't say anything else. It was clear something was on her mind.

"How are you doing?" I asked, trying to sound cheerful. "Settling into Hogwarts all right?"

Ginny shrugged, avoiding my gaze. "It's… fine, I suppose. I mean, it's Hogwarts, so it's amazing, but… I don't know. Sometimes it feels… overwhelming."

I could understand that. My first year had been incredible, but it had taken me a while to adjust, too. "It's a big change," I said kindly. "But you're doing great, Ginny. And if you ever feel out of place, just remember, everyone here started out feeling the same way. It gets easier."

She gave me a small smile. "Thanks, Hermione. You're… really good at this whole advice thing."

I chuckled. "Well, I try. Though I'm sure listening to me go on about books doesn't make me the most exciting person to talk to."

Ginny giggled, her nervousness fading slightly. "At least you know what you're doing. Ron just makes it up as he goes along."

We both burst out laughing at that, imagining Ron fumbling his way through situations. The image of him trying to improvise his way out of trouble was far too easy to conjure.

"Honestly, you're going to love it here, Ginny," I said, giving her a reassuring pat on the arm. "It might take time, but soon you'll feel like you belong."

"Thanks, Hermione," she said, her smile a little brighter now. "I'll try to remember that."

It was nearly eleven when Ron finally stumbled back into the common room. The fire had burned low, casting a warm, flickering glow across the red and gold furnishings. Everyone else had gone to bed hours ago, including Ginny. Even Harry had trudged upstairs after his own detention, looking utterly knackered. But I stayed, curled up by the fireplace with a book. I wasn't sure why—maybe I felt like Ron shouldn't come back to an empty room, not after the day he'd had.

"Hey," he mumbled, dropping onto the sofa beside me with a heavy sigh. Before I could respond, he leaned his head on my shoulder, catching me completely off guard. My whole body stiffened. Ron had never done anything like this before. I wasn't sure what to do, but he looked so worn out, so defeated, that I let it slide. Slowly, I relaxed, even shifting a little to make us more comfortable.

It wasn't terrible, I thought. Actually, it was...nice.

"How was detention?" I asked, forcing myself to sound casual as I glanced back down at my book.

"Brutal," he groaned, rubbing his wrist. "I kept throwing up on the trophies, so I had to clean them over. Filch seemed thrilled about that."

"About that...I wanted to thank you." I said. My voice felt smaller than usual, and I wasn't quite sure why..

He blinked at me, confused. "For what?"

"For burping up slugs for me," I said slowly, feeling a bit silly. "You didn't have to curse Malfoy over that, but you did. And even though it backfired—"

"Of course I had to," Ron interrupted, lifting his head from my shoulder and staring at me like I'd just said something completely daft. "Hermione, he insulted you in one of the worst ways you can insult someone in the wizarding world. There's isn't anything dirty about you nor your blood. Hell, you can do spells better than his father probably, and a hell of a lot better than him. You're my best friend. So I don't mind burping up slugs over being there for you."

I felt a warm flush rise to my cheeks, and a small, genuine smile spread across my face. I closed my book completely, resting it on my lap. Ron had never been particularly eloquent, but his words had a way of cutting right to the heart of things. He thought highly of me, more than I ever realized. And in his clumsy, Ron-ish way, he'd made me feel safe and valued. It wasn't something I was used to, outside of my parents, and even then, this was...different.

Ron had started to grow on me, I realized. He was brash and loud and sometimes utterly insufferable, but he was also fiercely loyal and kind hearted in ways that caught me by surprise. And he made me laugh—more than I ever had in my life, really.

Maybe I did belong in this world after all. As long as I had friends like Ron and Harry by my side, I felt like I could belong anywhere.