novelraw Chapter 42: The Special Little Mudblood
Chapter 42: The Special Little Mudblood
Chapter Forty-Two: The Special Little Mudblood
"All right, no danger." A platinum-blonde head peeked around the corner first, glanced into the empty corridor near the library, and said casually, "Let's go."
"Honestly, you don't need to be so cautious. Statistically speaking," Hermione said to Draco as she emerged from around the corner, "I think the probability of me encountering the Basilisk near the library is..."
"Didn't we already agree that this has nothing to do with probability?" Draco said bluntly. "Please, whatever you do, don't go to the library by yourself, all right? Or maybe don't go to the library at all—"
"What are you saying?" Hermione snapped. "I'm not going to abandon the library just because of some monster that could appear at any time!"
"Fine! Go ahead—I'll go with you. Don't refuse, don't be impatient, at least let me go with you, all right?" Draco's tone also became irritable. "I really don't think you should go alone! Aren't you afraid? You should be more vigilant than others—"
"Should I thank you for your special attention, or be angry at your certainty that I'm about to become the victim?" Hermione said, both amused and exasperated. "Anyone can be Petrified, so why are you so fixated on me being next? Why are you only following me through this incredibly complicated process?"
Draco, of course, had to go with her. He couldn't help but worry about her.
He could never forget one thing: following the sequence of events in his past life, she would be the next victim of Petrification. Back then, she was attacked near the library.
He would always remember her Petrified face. That cold, stiff, lifeless face.
"Because you didn't take this matter to heart—you didn't even use the mirror I gave you properly." Draco, feeling guilty, made up a flimsy excuse. "I've walked down this corridor so many times, and I've never seen you use it..."
"Aren't you exaggerating? Are you worrying about me to an absurd degree?" Hermione said, a little exasperated. "I'm not three years old—I'm thirteen. I can take care of myself. I always carry that mirror with me—look, it's in my pocket. I just haven't had a chance to use it because every time I go to the library, you follow me and even check for me before I turn the corner..."
"I—I just happened to be going to the library too!" He stammered, a rare occurrence for him, and quickly emphasized, afraid she would discover more of his thoughts. "It was just a coincidence! I didn't follow you on purpose."
"Yeah, I'd be a fool to believe you." Hermione rolled her eyes at him, but secretly she was a little pleased.
You can hardly resist Draco Malfoy, Hermione thought.
You often didn't know what he was thinking. You didn't know where his stubborn insistence came from. You also didn't know how many mysteries surrounding him were yet to be solved.
All you knew was that his aloof face always showed you a kindness and friendliness that was different from others, as if you were something special.
He'd occasionally let slip a hint of his worry for you, then vehemently deny it and quickly hide it. Just when you thought you were "overthinking it," he'd stare directly at you with those clear, complex grey eyes and casually ask, "Library? Together?"
Couldn't he just be a normal friend like Harry or Ron? They never cared whether she went to the library or not, never thought she couldn't take care of herself, and never thought she was afraid!
"I must say, I'm not afraid at all," Hermione said proudly, walking beside him as they passed a silent statue. "I'm not as fragile as I seem—"
"What are you trying to do?" Draco abruptly pulled Hermione behind him, glaring angrily at his boil-covered twin brothers who suddenly sprang out from behind the statue.
"Don't be so serious—have a sense of humor!" Fred laughed heartily, putting his arm around Draco's shoulder, completely lacking in manners.
"For Merlin's sake, stop scaring everyone you see, all right?" Draco said, wrinkling his nose and quietly loosening his grip on Hermione's sleeve.
Hermione gripped the back of his robes tightly, peeked out from behind him at the Weasley twins, and looked shaken. "Yeah, George, why do you always scare people like that?"
How embarrassing, Hermione thought. One second I said I wasn't afraid, and the next I'm hiding behind him. She silently prayed he wouldn't notice.
"Sorry, Hermione." George shook his head, which was covered in boils, and grinned at the girl, whose expression was gradually returning to normal. "We actually wanted to find him—scaring you was just a bonus."
"I wasn't scared! I just didn't react in time!" Hermione said stubbornly, and before anyone could refute her, she quickly changed the subject. "George, actually, I was just about to talk to you about Ginny. You really shouldn't scare her anymore. She's already been traumatized by the series of accidents and is crying all the time... Are you sure she can understand your sense of humor?"
George shrugged at her. "She seemed much better when we came out in Fur Coats to scare her last time..."
Meanwhile, Draco whispered to Fred, "Haven't we got our hands on that rat yet?"
"I was just about to say that," Fred said quietly, somewhat exasperated. "We were planning to steal it while he was away, but he takes it everywhere he goes."
Throughout January, the Weasley twins' "rat-catching" went poorly. Draco, observing from the sidelines, sensed just how obsessed Ron was with that mangy rat.
He must really like that rat, Draco thought, somewhat troubled.
"If you ask me, he's probably fallen in love with it!" Fred exclaimed dramatically, a shiver running down his boil-covered face. "Think about it—it might actually be a sleazy old man!"
Draco didn't want to imagine the kind of scenario Fred had described. But every time he saw the name "Peter Pettigrew" on the Marauder's Map, he felt as if he'd been doused with undiluted Bubotuber pus, and he felt extremely uncomfortable.
Fortunately, the rat didn't seem to have any intention of escaping. Having lived in the Weasley house for so many years, it was perhaps no longer as sharp or alert as it once was. All they lacked now was the opportunity for Ron to forget to bring his precious rat.
Until that opportunity arrived, Draco had no choice but to shift his focus, looking less at the Marauder's Map and concentrating more on studying Herpo's Notebook.
Thanks to Hermione, he'd translated almost all the texts about the Basilisk.
Unfortunately, the notes did not contain any methods for subduing the Basilisk, but only described how to hatch it.
"Using toads to hatch chicken eggs, ugh..." Hermione said with a look of disdain. By now, they'd said goodbye to the twin brothers who'd jumped back behind the statue and were sitting in the library's secluded "study corner"—their unique name for Draco's private space.
Hermione was nauseated as she looked at the roughly translated text. "Unbelievable—this method can hatch a Basilisk. I mean, what's the logic behind this? It completely defies the scientific principles of Muggle biology..."
Draco didn't ask what Muggle biology was, but he roughly understood what Hermione meant. He said, "This method is extraordinary, and it probably won't succeed every time. It might require lots of hidden, demanding conditions. I guess the chances of breeding a Basilisk must be extremely low."
Reproductive isolation between species was common even in the magical world, making this cross-species reproductive method highly suspicious.
"So many years have passed, and the Basilisk has never been bred on a large scale, which shows how difficult it is. I even suspect that the Basilisk in the Chamber is the one that Herpo bred," Draco pondered.
Hermione nodded in agreement. "I think we should translate it more precisely, although the general meaning should be about the same."
Just as they were about to find a few more supplementary books to help them understand the strange-looking characters more easily, some whispers from students drifted into their ears.
"I've said it before—only Muggle-borns get attacked by monsters, and Justin is a prime example." Through the gaps in the bookshelves, they saw Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff explaining this to the students beside him.
"Why is Macmillan always so gossipy?" Draco frowned, thinking. It's always Macmillan spreading rumors. Just the other day he was making things up about Harry...
"Oh, Ernie, who would do such a terrible thing!" A blonde second-year girl gasped.
"Hannah, don't be afraid—you're a pure-blood!" Ernie comforted her. "I think if it wasn't Harry Potter, it could have been one of the Slytherin students! They're the least friendly to Muggle-borns."
Here we go again. It's always the Slytherins who do bad things, no question about it. Draco smiled wearily.
These days, the Slytherin students lived under the scrutinizing gazes of the students from the other three Houses. In this environment, for those rebellious and arrogant children, it would be a shame not to do something mischievous in the face of such overwhelming suspicion. In his past life, Draco had thought the same way.
"That's right—I heard Millicent Bulstrode of Slytherin call Hermione Granger of Gryffindor 'Mudblood' that day, right there at the Duelling Club..." said the girl named Hannah.
"That's incredibly rude!" Susan Bones exclaimed indignantly. "That's not something a respectable witch should say!"
Draco suddenly began to agree with Bones. He also felt that Bulstrode was rather impolite.
Did Bulstrode not only headlock Hermione badly that day, but also call her that? He'd had no idea. It seemed he hadn't gone far enough when he'd pulled Bulstrode away. Draco frowned, suddenly finding himself restless.
At that moment, he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Hermione's expression froze for a moment when she heard "Mudblood."
Then, she silently retreated from the bookshelf, took no more books, and went back to sit on the sofa in the study corner, lost in thought.
"Are you all right?" he asked gently as he sat down beside her. He didn't know what to say to comfort her, or what stance to take.
He'd once been one of those who called her "Mudblood." Back then, they weren't friends, but rather what he'd considered his "enemies."
He used to be very jealous of her. That brown-haired girl, that know-it-all who could answer any question the professors asked perfectly, outshone everyone else. She always scored higher than him. Apart from her blood status, she was so perfect that he had no reason to attack her or vent his anger.
Back then, they'd always enjoyed attacking each other sharply. She'd attacked him scathingly, saying he'd only paid his way into the Slytherin Quidditch team and had no real ability. He was furious and racked his brains, only able to use the "Mudblood" thing as a weapon to launch a fierce counterattack.
From then on, things had spiraled out of control, and the two had become bitter rivals.
Throughout his second year, they'd been busy arguing.
"I looked up the meaning of 'Mudblood' in the library. It's a derogatory term for Muggle-born people—that is, people whose parents don't have magic." His keen concern made Hermione feel extremely wronged, even though she'd thought she'd hidden it well.
She lowered her head, her long eyelashes obscuring her moist eyes. She said softly, "Isn't it a nasty term? It means dirty, inferior blood."
"I'm sorry." Draco's pale grey eyes flickered uneasily.
Merlin! In fact, I didn't think she was dirty or inferior—I was just too foolish to use such words to attack others.
Every time he thought about it, he felt immense regret. He might have regretted it long ago, but he was just too ashamed to admit it.
Draco suddenly remembered what Dumbledore had said in his previous life on the Astronomy Tower. At that time, Dumbledore had seemed very weak, as if he'd collapse at any moment, but he was still correcting Draco, telling him not to call Hermione "Mudblood."
"Please don't use that insulting word in front of me," Dumbledore had said to Draco.
The wizard who'd maintained his composure even as death approached was etched into Draco's mind with every word.
For a moment, Dumbledore's blue eyes had seemed to see through all his pretense, but he'd pretended not to know out of some pity for him or out of protection for her.
At that moment, Draco, overwhelmed by inner turmoil and fear, had let out a barely audible, masked laugh.
Yes, "Mudblood"—that's what he'd insisted on calling her in his previous life.
If he regretted it and stopped calling her "Mudblood," it meant that his years of insistence were wrong. He was wrong from the very first moment he'd uttered the first word "Mudblood."
How foolish and proud Draco Malfoy was!
By then, he could no longer bear the shift and the need to admit his mistakes—he'd gone too far, too far to turn back. His whole family had gone far, with a ridiculous sense of self-confidence, tightly bound to the Dark Lord's madly speeding ship, surrounded by floating icebergs, with no room to maneuver.
Although it sounded like a lame and despicable excuse, or some kind of absolutely unfunny hellish joke, Draco had to admit that he'd only ever called Hermione "Mudblood," and no one else was worthy of being called that by him.
Merlin knew it sounded arrogant, sick, and utterly unlikable, but, to be honest, Hermione Granger had always been different in his heart.
She was the only little Mudblood in his heart.
The little Mudblood that made him grit his teeth, the one he couldn't help but care about.
No one knew what this meant, not even he himself.
He didn't even want to delve deeper, busy hiding this hidden secret and emotion.
What's the point? In that situation, they were adversaries, mortal enemies, and objects of mutual contempt from different camps. What change could understanding those emotions possibly bring?
So he'd retaliated by calling her "Mudblood," reinforcing his belief over and over again that they were adversaries. He didn't need to care about her, and he didn't need to pay attention to anything she said.
He'd had his own mission to fulfill, just as she'd had her ideals to uphold. In the chaotic state of their past life, the only thing he was certain of was that she was special to him.
In particular, if given the chance to do it all over again, he would never call her "Mudblood" again.
He would never say it again.
No way.
"I'm sorry," he said again, frowning.
"Why are you apologizing? You didn't insult me." Hermione said to him, her voice choked with emotion. Tears were streaming down her warm cheeks, and the pervasive dampness made his heart ache.
So that's why she was so sensitive to that word. In his past life, she'd acted stubborn, proud, and indifferent in front of him, as if the title was nothing special.
But now, she cried. She was heartbroken because of that word.
Draco suddenly understood that her nonchalant attitude in his past life might have been a protective shell. After all, she was so proud that she wouldn't even admit to being afraid, so how could she be willing to expose her vulnerability to others?
How could such a proud girl bear such an insult?
Just as the proud Draco couldn't stand being called a "Death Eater" or being mocked for his father's affiliation with Azkaban and for being "the son of a criminal."
Those words were like a sharp knife, cutting bloody wounds into his heart until they became scarred and crisscrossed, making it impossible to tell where the new wounds were. Eventually, he'd learned to act indifferent, not because the knife had become dull and he could no longer feel the pain, but because the excessive pain had numbed him.
In his past life, he'd called her that time and time again. How had she endured it? Was she like him? Were her wounds layered upon each other amidst endless pain, her heart bleeding beneath a numb exterior? Regret surged like a tidal wave, instantly overwhelming his heart.
"I should apologize. For me, for some of my classmates, even for my parents, elders, and ancestors. Ultimately, this is a stubborn prejudice that has been passed down since Salazar Slytherin's time," Draco said hastily, handing her a pale grey handkerchief. She buried her face in the handkerchief, her shoulders rising and falling with her sobs, her back looking so thin and pitiful.
He wanted to try patting her back or shoulder to comfort her, but his hand remained frozen mid-air.
He dared not.
The look of disgust in her eyes from his past life had lingered in his mind. He'd been a filthy Death Eater—he shouldn't have touched her.
Having been reborn, he was careful not to touch her. He was afraid she'd look at him like that again.
In moments of urgency, he sometimes forgot about it. But as soon as he remembered, as soon as he recalled the look of disgust in her eyes from his past life, he quickly retreated.
Even though she didn't know about the past, even though she trusted him completely, Draco remembered everything. He remembered every single thing—how he'd hurt her, how she'd loathed him. These memories etched in his heart an indelible mark.
She was still crying. He still didn't dare touch her. To him, she was some kind of transparent, fragile, exquisite, and delicate glass artifact, and he was truly afraid that he might accidentally shatter her.
Hermione lifted her teary eyes and looked at Draco's solemn face with a bewildered expression. In that instant, his contradictions, vulnerability, and helplessness were laid bare before her.
Yes, his unspeakable timidity and long-hidden sorrow were captured in her casual glance. Even when he tried to comfort her, he had to be cautious, afraid of incurring her displeasure.
Her sorrowful and desolate gaze made him completely lose the courage to touch her.
His hand slowly clenched into a fist, then quietly lowered. He felt a pang of bitterness in his heart, trying to justify himself. "Some wizards always feel superior to others because they are so-called pure-bloods. Especially Slytherin students, because that's the philosophy their families uphold. Pure-blood wizards despise Muggle-born wizards and don't want to associate with them, for certain historical reasons, and also because of the education they received from childhood."
An incredulous look flashed in the girl's eyes, followed by a sorrowful and probing expression. "And you, Draco, do you... think so too?" she finally asked, her voice anxious and her expression somber, her voice trembling with sobs.
"I must say, my parents also held the belief of 'pure-blood supremacy,' and that's how they raised me." Draco frowned, feeling guilty and remorseful. "I have to admit, I once believed in this when I was very young. Now I know it's not like that. The belief they held was wrong. You are excellent, excellent in every subject. You were able to brew Polyjuice Potion in second year—I've never seen anyone so talented in Potions at that age. Charms, Transfiguration... you do everything very well..."
"Oh, Draco, stop flattering me." The gloom that had been swirling in her heart was completely dispelled by his straightforward praise and compliments. She laughed through her tears, her voice still thick with emotion. "You probably forgot that I'm not very good at flying."
"Well... I think you're pretty safe on your broom as long as you don't play Quidditch." Draco breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her mood improve. He locked away his hopeless, regretful, and gloomy emotions with Occlumency and tried to make her laugh with witty remarks.
"I don't think I've congratulated you on catching the Golden Snitch in the last match. Your flying has always been amazing. Harry told me that even without that rogue Bludger, you had a very good chance of catching the Snitch." Hermione wiped away the remaining tears with the handkerchief, not dwelling on that lake of sorrow for too long, but instead turning to take care of Draco's feelings.
Draco, he's so kind. Hermione had never expected him to comfort her like that.
He clearly had that kind of father, yet he was practically saying his father was wrong. Not every child had the courage to point that out and deny the correctness of their parents.
If she'd bumped into Mr. Malfoy in Diagon Alley that day, would he have called her "Mudblood"? According to Ginny's description, he was a sharp-tongued, arrogant man. He certainly could have called her that.
She wasn't surprised at all. She might be unhappy about it.
But it was just unhappiness.
But if Draco called her that, she probably wouldn't be able to handle it. She might be heartbroken. She didn't even want to consider that possibility—it was too painful to contemplate.
Fortunately, Draco wasn't like his father. He'd gently comforted her, praised her, and even apologized to her on behalf of those who'd hurt her. He was always very kind to her, unusually so.
At that moment, the boy who'd been so kind to her was slightly upturned at the corners of his mouth, feeling a secret joy from her words. "Next Quidditch match, the Slytherin versus Ravenclaw game—will you cheer me on? I really need some encouragement," Draco said, a little uncertainly.
Slytherin was now universally reviled. The Chamber of Secrets incident was escalating, and the other three Houses were increasingly suspicious of Slytherin students. Coupled with the insulting terms some Slytherin students used, he wondered if she'd still be willing to cheer for a Slytherin.
But he couldn't help but ask.
He inexplicably hoped that at the moment of his victory, she'd look at him with those joyful eyes, cheering, jumping for joy, and being happy for him, just as she'd been ecstatic for Harry's victory.
"Of course," Hermione said cheerfully.
Her nose was still a little red from crying. Her large brown eyes looked bright—perhaps because they were so moist—like Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer in Muggle stories, innocent and endearing.
The girl, as delicate as a deer, looked at him with open and cheerful eyes and smiled at him with her lips pursed.