20. Mudbloods and Murmurs
As the days passed, Harry spent much of his time dodging out of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Unfortunately, he wasn't so lucky when it came to avoiding Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized his timetable. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than calling out, "All right, Harry?" six or seven times a day and hearing, "Hello, Colin," back—no matter how exasperated Harry sounded.
Hedwig was still angry with Harry about the disastrous car journey, while Markl had finally cozied up to Hope again. One morning in the Great Hall, she gave him bread, and he nudged against her hand affectionately. Meanwhile, Ron's wand was still malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday morning when it shot out of his hand in Charms, hitting tiny old Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes and creating a large, throbbing green boil where it struck. With one thing and another, the quartet was relieved when the weekend finally arrived.
They had planned to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning, but Oliver Wood apparently had other ideas. Hope found herself being shaken awake far earlier than she would have liked by Angelina Johnson.
"What?" Hope mumbled groggily.
"Wood's ordered Quidditch practice!" Angelina announced.
Hope groaned, her head falling back onto her pillow. "Come on, Lupin," Angelina urged, shaking her again.
Hope lifted her head, squinting at the window. A thin mist hung across the pink and gold sky.
"Angelina," she croaked, "it's the crack of dawn."
"Hey, I'm not happy about it either," Angelina said, raising her hands in defense. "It's part of Wood's new training program. Come on, grab your broom and let's go. Welcome to the team..." she called over her shoulder as she left Hope's dormitory.
Yawning and shivering slightly, Hope climbed out of bed and rummaged through her trunk for her Quidditch robes. Once she found her scarlet team robes, she pulled on her cloak for warmth, scribbled a note to Hermione explaining where she'd gone, and headed down the spiral staircase to the common room, broom in hand.
She yawned as she spotted Harry descending from the boys' dormitory.
"Remind me again why I wanted to join the team?" she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Harry chuckled tiredly. "Right now, I'm asking myself the same question."
They had just reached the portrait hole when a clatter behind them made them turn. Colin Creevey came dashing down the staircase, his camera swinging wildly around his neck and something clutched in his hand.
"I heard someone saying your name on the stairs, Harry! Look what I've got! I had it developed—I wanted to show you!"
Harry looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin brandished under his nose.
A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm Harry recognized as his own. His photographic self was putting up a good fight, refusing to be dragged into view. As Harry watched, Lockhart finally gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of the picture.
"Will you sign it?" Colin asked eagerly.
"No," Harry said flatly.
Hope nudged him lightly. "Be nice," she whispered.
Harry sighed and turned to Colin. "Sorry, Colin, I'm in a hurry—Quidditch practice."
They climbed through the portrait hole.
"Oh wow! Wait for me! I've never watched a Quidditch game before!" Colin scrambled through after them.
"It'll be really boring," Harry said quickly, but Colin ignored him, his face shining with excitement.
"You were the youngest house player in a hundred years, weren't you, Harry? Weren't you?" Colin trotted alongside him. "You must be brilliant. I've never flown. Is it easy? Is that your own broom? Is that the best one there is?"
Harry didn't know how to get rid of him. It was like having an extremely talkative shadow.
"You know, I'm not sure if Oliver allows spectators," Hope said, trying to help.
Harry nodded vigorously, but Colin didn't seem to register the comment.
"I don't really understand Quidditch," Colin went on breathlessly. "Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly around trying to knock people off their brooms?"
"Yes," Harry said heavily, resigned to explaining the complicated rules. "They're called Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side. Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters."
"And what are the other balls for?" Colin asked, nearly tripping down a couple of steps because he was staring at Harry in awe.
"Well, the Quaffle—that's the biggish red one—is used to score goals. Three Chasers on each team throw it to each other and try to get it through the goalposts at the end of the pitch. There are three long poles with hoops on the end," Hope explained.
"And the fourth ball?" Colin prompted.
"That's the Golden Snitch," Harry said. "It's very small, very fast, and difficult to catch. The game doesn't end until the Seeker catches it, and whichever team's Seeker gets it earns an extra hundred and fifty points."
"And you're Gryffindor Seeker, aren't you?" Colin asked in awe.
"Yes," Harry said as they left the castle and started across the dew-drenched grass. "And there's the Keeper, too. He guards the goalposts. That's it, really."
But Colin didn't stop questioning them—well, really, just Harry—all the way down the sloping lawns to the Quidditch pitch. Harry only managed to shake him off when they reached the changing rooms.
"I'll go and get a good seat, Harry!" Colin called after him, hurrying off to the stands.
The rest of the Gryffindor team was already in the changing room. Wood was the only one who looked truly awake. Fred and George Weasley sat, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, while Hope's fellow Chasers, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson, yawned side by side opposite them.
"There you two are. What kept you?" Wood said briskly. "Now, I wanted a quick talk before we get onto the pitch, because I spent the summer devising a whole new training program that I really think will make all the difference."
He held up a large diagram of a Quidditch pitch covered in lines, arrows, and crosses in different colors. Tapping the board with his wand, the arrows began wiggling like caterpillars. As Wood launched into an enthusiastic speech about his new tactics, Fred Weasley's head drooped onto Hope's shoulder, and he began to snore.
The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain. Then Wood revealed a second, and a third beneath that. Harry sank into a stupor as Wood droned on and on, while Hope's head kept snapping up every time it lulled to the side.
"So," Wood said at last, snapping Harry out of a wistful fantasy about breakfast back at the castle, "is that clear? Any questions?"
"I've got a question, Oliver," George said, jolting awake. "Why couldn't you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?"
Hope laughed, lifting her hand to her mouth to muffle her giggles, but Wood didn't seem as amused.
"Now, listen here, you lot," he glowered at them all. "We should have won the Quidditch Cup last year. We're easily the best team. But unfortunately, owing to circumstances beyond our control..."
Harry shifted guiltily in his seat, and Hope suddenly found her shoes very interesting. If Harry hadn't been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, it was likely Gryffindor wouldn't have suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.
Wood took a moment to regain control of himself. Their last defeat was clearly still torturing him.
"So, this year, we train harder than ever before... Okay, let's go put our new theories into practice!" Wood shouted, seizing his broomstick and marching toward the pitch. Stiff-legged and still yawning, the team followed.
They had been in the changing room so long that the sun was fully up now, though remnants of mist clung to the grass. As they stepped onto the pitch, Hope turned and spotted Ron and Hermione sitting in the stands.
"Aren't you finished yet?" Ron called incredulously.
"Haven't even started," Harry muttered, eyeing the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had brought from the Great Hall with open jealousy. "Wood's been teaching us new moves."
Hope frowned as her stomach rumbled. She sighed, mounted her broomstick, and kicked off the ground. The cool morning air whipped her face, waking her far more effectively than Wood's speech.
It was her first time flying on the Quidditch pitch. Sure, she had flown during lessons last year and at tryouts, but this was different. The wind streamed through her hair as she soared, the thrill of being on the team mixing with the sheer exhilaration of flight. She rocketed around the stadium at full speed, racing Harry and the twins.
"What's that funny clicking noise?" Fred called as they hurtled around a corner.
Hope glanced into the stands. Colin Creevey sat perched in one of the highest seats, camera raised, snapping picture after picture, the sound strangely amplified in the empty stadium. She smirked, turning to Harry.
"It's Harry's biggest fan," she teased.
"Shut up," Harry muttered, glancing down at Colin in embarrassment. He put on a burst of speed, distancing himself as quickly as possible.
"What's going on?" Wood demanded, skimming through the air toward them. "Why's that first-year taking pictures? I don't like it. He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training program."
"He's in Gryffindor," Harry said quickly.
"And the Slytherins don't need a spy, Oliver," George added.
Wood narrowed his eyes. "What makes you say that?"
"Because they're here in person," George said, pointing.
Several figures in green robes strolled onto the pitch, broomsticks in hand.
"I don't believe it!" Wood hissed, outraged. "I booked the pitch for today! We'll see about this!"
He shot toward the ground, landing harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted. Hope, Harry, Fred, and George followed.
"Flint!" Wood bellowed at the Slytherin captain. "This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!"
Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a look of trollish cunning on his face as he replied, "Plenty of room for all of us, Wood."
Angelina and Katie had come over too. There were no girls on the Slytherin team, who now stood shoulder to shoulder, leering at the Gryffindors.
"But I booked the pitch!" Wood nearly spat with rage. "I booked it!"
"Ah," Flint said smoothly, "but I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. 'I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch pitch, owing to the need to train their new Seeker.'"
"You've got a new Seeker?" Wood asked, momentarily distracted. "Where?"
From behind the six large figures came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. Draco Malfoy.
Hope scowled in his direction, muttering under her breath, "Of course it's Malfoy."
"Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?" Fred asked, eyeing Draco with clear dislike.
"Funny you should mention Draco's father," Flint said, as the entire Slytherin team grinned wider. "Let me show you the generous gift he's made to our team."
All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles gleamed in the early morning sun, each set with fine gold lettering that spelled out 'Nimbus Two Thousand and One.'
"Very latest model. Only came out last month," Flint said carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of his broom. "I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by quite a bit. As for the old Cleansweeps..." He smirked at Fred and George, who were clutching their Cleansweep Fives. "Sweeps the board with them."
For a moment, none of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say. Malfoy's smirk widened until his cold eyes were reduced to slits.
"Oh, look," Flint sneered. "A pitch invasion."
Ron and Hermione were crossing the grass toward them.
"What's happening?" Ron asked. "Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?" His gaze landed on Malfoy, taking in the Slytherin Quidditch robes.
"I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley," Malfoy said smugly. "Everyone's just been admiring the brooms my father bought for the team."
Ron gaped at the seven superb broomsticks in front of him.
"Good, aren't they?" Malfoy said smoothly. "Perhaps the Gryffindor team could raise some gold and get new brooms too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives. I expect a museum would bid for them."
The Slytherin team howled with laughter.
"Understandable you'd need the best brooms to compensate for your poor skills," Hope shot back.
Flint scowled, taking a menacing step forward. Oliver and George immediately stepped in front of Hope protectively.
"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," Hermione said sharply. "They got in on pure talent."
The smug look on Malfoy's face flickered. "No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spat.
A stunned silence followed. Then, chaos.
Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to stop Fred and George from jumping on him. Oliver grabbed Hope, pulling her back as she swung her broom over her head, fully intending to beat Malfoy with it.
"How dare you!" she shrieked.
Ron plunged his hand into his robes, yanking out his wand. "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" he yelled, pointing it furiously under Flint's arm at Malfoy's face.
A loud bang echoed around the stadium. A jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron's wand, hitting him in the stomach and sending him reeling backward onto the grass.
"Ron! Ron! Are you all right?" Hermione squealed.
Ron opened his mouth, but instead of words, an almighty belch erupted—and several large, glistening slugs dribbled out onto his lap.
The Slytherin team collapsed in laughter. Flint doubled over, clinging to his broomstick for support. Malfoy fell to all fours, banging the ground with his fist.
The Gryffindors rushed to Ron's side as he continued to belch up slugs. Nobody seemed eager to touch him.
"We'd better get him to Hagrid's," Harry said. "It's closest."
Hope and Hermione nodded, and together they hoisted Ron up by the arms.
"What happened, Harry? Is he ill? But you can cure him, can't you?" Colin Creevey had run down from the stands and was now bouncing alongside them. Ron gave another huge heave, and more slugs splattered onto his front.
"Oooh!" Colin gasped, fascinated. He raised his camera. "Can you hold him still, Harry?"
"Get out of the way, Colin!" Harry snapped.
"Colin, please move," Hope added more gently, nudging him aside as Harry and Hermione supported Ron across the grounds toward the edge of the forest.
"Nearly there, Ron," Hermione assured him as Hagrid's cabin came into view. "You'll be all right in a minute... almost there..."
They were within twenty feet of the house when the front door swung open. But it wasn't Hagrid who emerged.
Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes of the palest mauve, strode out with a self-satisfied smile.
"Quick, behind here!" Harry hissed, dragging Ron behind a nearby bush.
Hermione hesitated, needing a small pull from Hope before she finally ducked down with them.
"It's a simple matter if you know what you're doing!" Lockhart was saying loudly to 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, goodbye!"
And he strode away toward the castle.
Harry waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ron out of the bush and up to Hagrid's front door. They knocked urgently.
Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but his expression brightened when he saw them.
"Bin wonderin' when you'd come ter see me – come in, come in – thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again."
Harry and Hermione supported Ron over the threshold, and Hope followed quickly into the one-roomed cabin. An enormous bed sat in one corner, and a fire crackled merrily in another. Hagrid didn't seem perturbed by Ron's slug problem, which Harry hastily explained as he lowered Ron into a chair.
"Better out than in," Hagrid said cheerfully, plonking a large copper basin in front of him. "Get 'em all up, Ron."
"I don't think there's anything to do except wait for it to stop," Hermione said anxiously, watching Ron bend over the basin. "That's a difficult curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand..."
Hope patted Ron's back comfortingly, grimacing and looking away as he threw up another slug into the basin.
Hagrid busied himself making tea while his boarhound, Fang, slobbered over Harry.
"What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?" Harry asked, scratching Fang's ears.
"Givin' me advice on gettin' kelpies out of a well," Hagrid growled, moving a half-plucked rooster off his scrubbed table and setting down the teapot. "Like I don' know. An' bangin' on about some Banshee he banished. If one word of it was true, I'll eat my kettle."
It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts teacher, and Harry looked at him in surprise. Hermione, however, said in a voice somewhat higher than usual, "I think you're being a bit unfair. Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for the job –"
"He was the on'y man for the job," Hagrid replied, offering them a plate of treacle toffee while Ron coughed squelchily into his basin. "An' I mean the on'y one. Gettin' very difficult ter find anyone fer the Dark Arts job. People aren't too keen ter take it on, see. They're startin' ter think it's jinxed. No one's lasted long fer a while now."
"Well, that explains it," Hope muttered.
"So tell me," Hagrid said, jerking his head at Ron, "who was he tryin' ter curse?"
"Malfoy called Hermione something. It must've been really bad, because everyone went mad," Harry said, glancing nervously at Hermione.
"It was bad," Ron croaked, emerging over the table top, looking pale and sweaty. "Malfoy called her 'Mudblood,' Hagrid –"
Ron dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs made their appearance. Hagrid looked outraged.
"He didn'!" he growled at Hermione.
"He did," she confirmed. "But I don't know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course..."
"It's about the most insulting thing he could think of," Ron gasped, coming back up. "Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who was Muggle-born – you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards – like Malfoy's family – who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blood." He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell into his outstretched hand. He threw it into the basin and continued, "I mean, the rest of us know it doesn't make any difference at all. Look at Neville Longbottom – he's pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up."
"An' they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can't do," Hagrid said proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta.
Hope nodded. "Draco's just jealous that he'll never be as smart or skilled as Hermione, even with the head start."
"It's a disgusting thing to call someone," Ron muttered, wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand before retching and ducking out of sight again.
"Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It's mad. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn't married Muggles we'd've died out," Hope added, looking down with a frown. She always hated wizards like Malfoy, the ones who went on and on about blood purity. Merlin knows what they'd call her if they found out about her father's condition.
"Well, I don' blame yeh fer tryin' ter curse him, Ron," Hagrid said loudly over the thuds of more slugs hitting the basin. "Bu' maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired. 'Spect Lucius Malfoy would've come marchin' up ter school if yeh'd cursed his son. Least yer not in trouble."
Harry would have pointed out that trouble didn't come much worse than having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but he couldn't; Hagrid's treacle toffee had cemented his jaws together.
"Harry," Hagrid said suddenly, as though struck by a thought, "gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I've heard you've bin givin' out signed photos. How come I haven't got one?"
Furious, Harry wrenched his teeth apart. "I have not been giving out signed photos!" he said hotly. "If Lockhart's still putting that about –"
But then he saw that Hagrid was laughing.
"I'm on'y jokin'," Hagrid said, patting Harry genially on the back and sending him face-first into the table. "I knew yeh hadn't really. I told Lockhart yeh didn' need teh. Yer more famous than him without tryin'."
"Bet he didn't like that," Harry muttered, sitting up and rubbing his chin.
"Don' think he did," Hagrid said, his eyes twinkling. "An' then I told him I'd never read one o' his books an' he decided ter go. Treacle toffee, Ron?" he added, as Ron reappeared.
"No thanks," Ron said weakly. "Better not risk it."
"Come an' see what I've bin growin'," Hagrid said as Hope, Harry, and Hermione finished the last of their tea.
In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid's house, a dozen massive pumpkins stood, each the size of a large boulder.
"Gettin' on well, aren't they?" Hagrid beamed. "Fer the Hallowe'en feast... should be big enough by then."
"What've you been feeding them?" Harry asked.
Hagrid glanced over his shoulder, making sure they were alone. "Well, I've bin givin' them—y'know—a bit o' help."
Hope's eyes flicked to Hagrid's flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back wall of his cabin. She was sure it was more than just an ordinary umbrella. In fact, Harry had theorized that Hagrid's old school wand was hidden inside it. Hagrid wasn't supposed to use magic—he had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year. He never told them why, and any mention of it made him clear his throat loudly and suddenly go mysteriously deaf until the subject was changed.
"An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?" Hermione said, somewhere between disapproval and amusement. "Well, you've done a good job on them."
"That's what yer little sister said," Hagrid remarked, nodding at Ron. "Met her jus' yesterday." His beard twitched as he looked sideways at Harry. "Said she was jus' lookin' round the grounds, but I reckon she was hopin' she might run inter someone else at my house." He winked. "If yeh ask me, she wouldn' say no ter a signed—"
"Oh, shut up," Harry groaned.
Ron snorted with laughter—and promptly sprayed slugs all over the ground.
"Watch it!" Hagrid roared, yanking Ron away from his precious pumpkins.
By the time they left, it was nearly lunchtime. Harry had only had one piece of treacle toffee since dawn, and Hope hadn't eaten anything at all. Eager to get back to school for a proper meal, they said goodbye to Hagrid and headed up to the castle, Ron hiccuping occasionally, but only bringing up two very small slugs.
They had barely set foot in the cool Entrance Hall when a voice rang out.
"There you are, Potter, Lupin, Weasley."
Professor McGonagall was striding toward them, looking stern.
"You three will serve your detentions this evening."
"What are we doing, Professor?" Ron asked, trying to suppress a burp.
"You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch," she replied. "And no magic, Weasley—elbow grease."
Ron gulped.
"And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail," McGonagall continued.
"Oh no—can't I do the trophy room too?" Harry asked desperately.
"Certainly not," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Professor Lockhart requested you particularly."
"And me?" Hope asked nervously.
"You will be with me, Miss Lupin," McGonagall said, eyeing her sharply. "You'll be copying sections of Hogwarts: A History or the school's rulebook. I believe you, in particular, could use a refresher on the school rules." She peered down at Hope through her spectacles.
"Eight o'clock sharp, all of you."
They slouched into the Great Hall, weighed down by the misery of their impending detentions. Hermione followed, wearing a well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expression.
Hope dug into her steak and kidney pudding, but Harry wasn't as excited about his shepherd's pie as he had thought. He and Ron both felt they'd gotten the worse end of the deal.
"Filch'll have me there all night," Ron groaned. "No magic! There must be a hundred cups in that room. I'm no good at Muggle cleaning."
"I'd swap any time," Harry said hollowly. "I've had loads of practice with the Dursleys. Answering Lockhart's fan mail... he'll be a nightmare."
"Hey, I have to do lines," Hope interjected, exasperated.
Ron and Harry turned to her, giving her identical deadpan looks.
"Yeah... I suppose that's not bad, actually," she muttered, turning back to her pudding.
"'Have to do lines,'" Ron repeated under his breath. "I'd give anything to have your punishment instead."
Harry nodded grimly. "I'd even take detention with Snape over Lockhart," he grumbled, stabbing his shepherd's pie with unnecessary force.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, the hours slipping past in a blur. Before Hope knew it, it was five minutes to eight, and the weight of her detention settled heavily on her shoulders. With a resigned sigh, she made her way to Professor McGonagall's classroom. The corridors were quiet, her footsteps echoing slightly against the stone walls.
When she arrived, the door was already open, and McGonagall sat at her desk, quill poised over a roll of parchment. The sharp scratch of her writing filled the room. Without looking up, she gestured toward the desk in front of her.
"Sit," she instructed, her tone brisk. "You will be copying lines from Hogwarts: A History—specifically, the school rules."
Hope sank into the chair, her fingers curling around the quill as she eyed the thick, heavy book placed before her. The silence settled quickly, stiff and awkward, broken only by the occasional shift of parchment or the light tapping of McGonagall's quill against the inkpot.
At first, she tried to focus, carefully copying each line in her neatest handwriting. But her eyes kept wandering. After the fifth time she stole a glance at McGonagall, the professor finally spoke without pausing her writing.
"Yes, Miss Lupin?"
Hope quickly dropped her gaze, pressing her lips together. "Nothing," she mumbled, returning to her work.
Another hour passed. The words began to blur together, the monotonous task making her fingers cramp. Her attention wavered again, drifting toward the professor. McGonagall, without looking up, let out an exasperated sigh. Removing her spectacles, she set them down with deliberate care and folded her hands over the parchment.
"What is it, Miss Lupin?" she asked at last.
Hope hesitated, then finally blurted, "Well... the other two got harsher punishments. Why is that?"
McGonagall arched an eyebrow. "Would you like a harsher punishment?"
Hope's head shook so fast it was almost comical. "No! No, I was just... curious."
McGonagall regarded her for a moment before nodding. "It's because I expect you to remember the rules and follow them," she said simply. "I do not wish to see another incident like last year."
Hope swallowed hard and nodded.
The professor's expression softened slightly. "You have cleverness and skill, Miss Lupin. I would suggest putting them to use in a more productive manner."
A small smile tugged at Hope's lips. Clever. McGonagall thought she was clever.
McGonagall then muttered under her breath, almost to herself, "Honestly, I never had any tomfoolery from—" She stopped herself, catching her words too late.
Hope's brows furrowed. She figured McGonagall was talking about her parents, and if she had to guess, it would be her father.
"I suppose my dad never caused any trouble," she said shyly.
McGonagall let out a small scoff, returning to her writing. "Ah, well, your father wasn't always the model student. Quite studious, yes, but he got up to plenty of trouble with his friends. It was quite the sight."
Hope blinked at her, surprised. She had always known her father as someone serious and focused—his strict disapproval of her own antics felt like the complete opposite of what McGonagall was describing. "My dad?" she asked, in disbelief.
McGonagall nodded, though her expression remained stoic. "Oh, yes. He could be just as reckless as any of the others when the mood struck him."
Hope nodded, taking in the information, and went back to writing her lines. But eventually, her curiosity got the better of her. The words slipped out before she could stop them.
"What was my mum like?" she asked.
McGonagall paused. For the first time that evening, her expression wasn't stern or exasperated—it was thoughtful. When she finally spoke, her voice had a gentleness that Hope hadn't expected.
"She was ambitious. Took her studies very seriously. She earned top marks in all her N.E.W.T.s. Always had her head in a book." She glanced at Hope then, with a knowing look. "She was also quite loyal, not unlike yourself, Miss Lupin."
Warmth spread through Hope's chest. She had never gotten to know her mother, not really. She only had stories—fragments of memories that she didn't quite remember.
She hesitated before asking her next question. "And-" she began but hesitated.
McGonagall inclined her head. "Yes?"
Hope fidgeted, staring down at her parchment. Her fingers tightened around her quill, and she forced herself to breathe before stammering, "Well, you taught dad as well... So you—you know about—"
McGonagall cut her off, her tone calm but firm. "I am aware of his condition."
She hesitated, then nervously added, "And it doesn't... bother you?"
McGonagall studied her carefully before responding. "Your father was a studious boy. He worked hard. He was kind. That is all that matters."
The words settled over her like a warm blanket, pushing away the lingering unease. Hope swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded, returning to her lines.
She'd spent her whole life knowing exactly who her dad was—and even with everything, she loved him deeply. He was her hero. He had always been there for her, teaching her how to work hard, be kind, and stay loyal. She was proud of him, proud of everything he had fought through and overcome. But no matter how much she loved him, there was always that one thing she couldn't escape.
It bothered her, though she'd never admit it aloud. The thought of people finding out who he truly was. What he was. She knew the prejudice he had faced—she had seen how it weighed him down, made his shoulders slump with uncertainty and self-loathing. It was always there, a shadow behind his eyes when he tried to push through.
She wasn't ashamed of him, though. She loved him too much to feel that way. But sometimes, the weight of it all made her wonder. Would people treat her differently if they knew? Would they be afraid of her, too?
It wasn't fair. She knew it wasn't. But deep down, she was scared. She hated that part of her, the one that wanted to protect herself from the judgment, the whispers, the fear. She hated that part of her that didn't want people to know she was the daughter of a werewolf.