The Mudblood

Chapter 51 : Year 3

Madam Pomfrey let me take off the neon green bandage after only one day, which she claimed was some kind of miracle. She was so fascinated by my strange healing connection with Malfoy that I feared she might injure one of us just to study it. Personally, I hoped she chose Malfoy as her victim, but that was a bit biased...

About another month went by in which I spent most of my time studying for exams, and the rest of my time was spent being badgered by everyone over who would win the Tournament. I still didn't know, but I sincerely hoped it was Harry...

On the day of the third task, the Great Hall was booming with excitement. I sat with the Slytherins for breakfast, though only because Astoria wouldn't stop talking long enough for me to tell her that I'd rather sit with the Gryffindors.

"I hope Cedric wins—just because he's the hottest," Astoria was saying as we sat down at the Slytherin table. I stared over at the Gryffindors longingly as she continued to rant. "Harry's a little cute, but he needs to ditch the glasses, and the scar, and cut his hair, and maybe get taller—"

"I hope they all die," Melody interjected, her eyes on her book. "That would be funny."

"I totally agree," Harper said quickly. "I'll be laughing so hard when...everyone...dies..." He glanced over at me with flustered eyes and then muttered, "What do you even say to that? She's absolutely crazy—"

"I can still hear you, Harper," Melody droned.

"I wish that Crabbe was one of the champions," Ashley sighed dreamily. "And then he would win—and he would be rich and amazing—"

"If Crabbe were a champion, he would have died of a heart attack when his name was pulled from the Goblet," was Melody's blunt comment. "So he'd be dead."

"Ooh! Here he comes now!" Ashley enthused as she looked toward the entrance, where Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were now strutting into the Great Hall. I expected them to sit with the rest of the fourth years, so I was thoroughly surprised when Malfoy kept walking—and then took a seat next to me. 

"Did you take a look at the Prophet yet, Mudblood?" he sneered as he threw a copy of the newspaper in front of me.

"No, what of it?" I asked as I examined the newspaper.

"Oh—just another hilarious article about Potter. And if you look on page five"—he reached over me to flip the pages, leaning much too close for me to feel comfortable— "you'll see that your prediction was right."

I took my eyes off of Malfoy's smug face to look down at the newspaper, which read, "Ministry Worker, Clay Williams, Murdered".

"Someone was murdered," Malfoy drawled. "Though I doubt he was anyone of importance. So—now that your obsession over this death has come to a close, you can now tell me who's going to win the Tournament today."

"I've already told you that I don't know," I hissed impatiently. "And this isn't the death I've felt anyway. Someone else is going to be killed—I know it. It's gnawing at me—the feeling just won't budge—"

"Yeah, yeah, no one cares about your pathetic feelings, Mudblood," he droned, clearly distracted. "Here comes Potter—Hey, Potter! Potter! How's your head? You feeling all right? Sure you're not going to go berserk on us?"

Malfoy waved the copy of the Daily Prophet at Harry as the rest of the Slytherins sniggered, turning their heads to see Harry's reaction over at the Gryffindor table. I backhanded Malfoy's shoulder and he stopped chortling to scowl at me.