Pawns of War

Explaining my relation to Harry Potter was incredibly simple. He did not question my story at all, and even recognized me from a family holiday get-together over three summers ago. I was relieved. Doubt had filled my mind before I introduced myself that he would think my relation was false, and was only saying stuff because he was famous.

“I believe you,” he said. “If only because you described Dudley with perfect accuracy.”

I laughed. Dudley certainly was an interesting character. His self-centeredness was beyond measure, and his attitude and disregard for my family was unimaginable. Something he learned from his mother and father I have no doubt.

Harry and I grew into an interesting friendship over our first year at Hogwarts. While I was certainly not as involved as Ron and Hermione, I was still invited to tag along, and we became very protective of one another. When I heard about Harry’s confrontation with Professor Quirrell and he who must not be named, I rushed to his hospital bed, and checked in on him everyday until he got better. He had been given some serious scratches and had hit his head fairly hard, but he was okay. And I was glad for that.

By our next year, Harry was one-hundred percent back to normal and ready to play Quidditch. He had invited me to come see Gryffindor’s team practice for the first time, but I decided to stay in and work on my potions homework.

If there was one teacher that instilled fear in any student, it was Professor Snape. His piercing gaze alone could probably turn the warm waters of the Bahamas into an arctic swimming pool. He was the reason I did my potions homework to perfection everyday, because I did not want to be on his bad side like Harry unfortunately was.

I sat in one of the study halls, and carefully began to quill my answers down onto the parchment. Making sure that my answers were legible and clearly showed how I came to each end result.

When I was about halfway finished, I heard a group of students – primarily Gryffindors – bustle by.

“Did you hear what that insufferable Malfoy called Granger?”

“I know it’s awful!”

“Only an uncivilized twat would call somebody else a mudblood!”

A mudblood?

I had heard the term before, but could not remember what it had meant. I stopped what I was doing with my potions homework and decided to take a quick study break and head to the library.

As I scoured the shelves, I tried my best to remember what the meaning of the word was. I grabbed a book that looked promising and flipped to a random page. A picture showed up and I gasped slightly.

It was a piece of propaganda, and showed witches and wizards standing on top of other people who were being whipped, beaten, and branded. The only words to appear were those of Muggles and Mudbloods alike.

The idea of the bloodlines was something that I understood, but could not grasp as to how it was still prevalent. In my head, I was the same as everybody else at Hogwarts, but to others, I was considered lower in social standing due to my muggle ancestry.

I remembered the times back home when the people at the department and grocery stores would treat my mum differently because of her Puerto Rican appearance, how she would do her best to keep up an indifferent state but in the end would look dejected as we walked back to our car. I remembered the times that I would be made fun of by the other children on the playground because my complexion was only that much darker than their own – a freak in more ways than one.

At Hogwarts, I had hoped to escape these racist sentiments that I had already become accustomed to seeing in the muggle world. But alas, it followed me here as well, and with holds just as strong.

I put the book back on its shelf. I couldn’t believe it. My stomach turned into thick knots and I knew I was going to be sick. I ran out of the library and to the nearest bathroom that I could find. Little to my knowledge was that it happened to be a boy’s bathroom.

As I wretched, I heard somebody come in. “Is everything alright in here?” I heard them call out.

I immediately recognized that voice. I heard him come closer, and then suddenly my hair was being pulled back away from my face just as I was finished. I took some deep breaths with my eyes closed and eventually managed to say, “I’m fine.”

“Like hell you are,” Draco said as I got up and walked to the sink. “Throwing up in the boys bathroom, oh sure, you are definitely fine.”

I heard the toilet flush as I washed my face with cold water. I felt his presence next to me. I did not know how to feel about him being so close to me at this time. Part of me wanted to vomit once more, another part of me wanted to slap him for calling Hermione such a foul word, and yet another part of me wanted to know why he would every call anybody something so foul and cruel.

“I should take you to the nurse,” he said.

His hand reached out to touch my arm, but I flinched back. I finally met his cold gray eyes. I did not know what to say. I swallowed the lump that was forming in my throat and finally spoke.

“Is it true? Did you really call Hermione Granger a… a mudblood?”

“Perhaps,” he answered. “Why does it have anything to do with you?”

“Because unless you didn’t know, maybe that word pertains to myself and a lot of other students here!”

He rolled his eyes. “I know, and it’s a pity.”

“Pity?” I asked.

The only thing in the world I pitied at that moment was Draco Malfoy and his family. They were so arrogant and haughty. They allowed their prejudice to infect everything they saw and understood about the world. Yes, indeed, I pitied them.

“Yes, it is a pity,” He spoke. “It is pitiful that Dumbledore and the Ministry honestly think that mudbloods, and half-bloods, and blood traitors can live in harmony with the rest of us pure-bloods. It’s pitiful that a Ravenclaw mudblood like yourself would even need to be told and reminded about this. We all have a place in this world, and well, mine is above yours.”

The meaty part of my palm collided with Malfoy’s face with such force, the slap reverberated off of the walls. He grabbed his face, and a high-pitched noise escaped him.

He began to say that his father would hear about this, but I cut him off.

“I don’t care,” I stated firmly. “I don’t care about what your father thinks, or your mother. I care about what you think and say about those who surround you. As offended as I am by your language and arrogance, Draco Malfoy, I cannot help but to hope that you will grow to be inherently different than the boy your parents are currently raising.”

He stared directly at me while I said this. I began to leave the boys bathroom, but paused for a moment longer.

“I understand what it is like to say things to make people think you are cool, or are better than everybody else. But I think that you can be a better person than that, Draco.”

I walked swiftly out of the bathroom and nearly ran for the Ravenclaw tower. My heart was beating so fast it was hard to hear anything else, and yet the word mudblood still pierced through and invaded my thoughts. Reminding me of the hatred people can carry with them.