𝑆𝐴𝑉𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐷𝑅𝐴𝐶𝑂 𝑀𝐴𝐿𝐹𝑂𝑌

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟗 - 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

╭────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────╮

𝐃

I felt flushed with fever. I could have easily blamed it on the alcohol but some wave of honesty had suddenly hit me; the first and last time in a while.

I watched her walk away from Trafalgar Square and was embarrassed when she noticed me.

I knew the blood status of each and every living thing in Hogwarts, yet this information had managed to escape me. I guess this girl had never kept my attention long enough for me to dive into a full report like I usually did with people. Being a Slytherin lift many suspicions off of her as well; most of the half-bloods and mudbloods usually got sorted in other houses. Although rare, we did have two 50-50 half-bloods – none of which were in our year.

She is just a half-blood. The voice jumped up. Not even a fucking mudblood. Maybe-

I stopped myself there.

A half-blood... I wasn't a fool. I always knew that most of the wizard families had some drop of mud in them nowadays. Traditionally, if you weren't a mudblood, a half-blood or a quarter-blood, you were considered a full-on pureblood. Half-bloods and quarter-bloods were nowhere near as respectful as a pureblood, but at least they were acceptable in our circles when they became full loyal servants to the Dark Lord.

But Ophelia? She was the epitome of muggle-love. She was friends with mudbloods and blood-traitors. She knew every painting in this ghastly, muggle Gallery. She admired this good-for-nothing art. She wore these wires in her ears and wrote with a muggle ballpoint pen. She was a traitor, a sleazy, good-for-nothing traitor.

If a half-blood ever had a chance to deserve any kind of appreciation, she had ruled herself out.

I cursed the few seconds that I had thought she was worthy of my time, just because she was a Slytherin. She didn't deserve my time. I looked forward to the moment I would kill Dumbledore and the Dark Lord could finally take over the world. Maybe then we would be purged of these abominations.

And now, I would forget all about her just like last time; just like in my fourth year, when she had briefly caught my eye at the Ball. I had simply learned about the people she associated herself with and forgot about her in a blink of an eye. I was caught in the same situation right now and there was no point in lying to myself; I had momentarily noticed her existence in a museum, moments before I had learned about her blood-status and general alignment. Now, just as easily as last time, I would forget.

I didn't even like her, anyway.

I walked around the medieval halls totally uninterested. It was midday now, and I knew that, if I went back to see Starry Night, the tourists would have overflown the room. However, my feet drove me almost involuntarily towards room 43. After all, the painting wasn't half bad and who knew, if it would be the last time in decades that it would be exhibited in London?

I even bought myself a notebook from the gift shop. The cover was vivid blue and yellow, three dimensional and anaglyph. Just a notebook, I thought.

Which raised the question again: what could Ophelia have been writing to that old notebook of hers?

I tried to trace my thoughts back to the moment I had heard that scribbling noise on the yellowish paper. I remembered it almost clearly now; she was writing a letter. To one of her loathsome friends, no doubt.

For all this, I had no one to blame but myself. I had let my loneliness run ahead of me. Emotion was running thick in my blood nowadays and, if I wanted this year to run smoothly, I couldn't let anything like this get in my way.