Hermione’s fingers lightly traced the scar on her forearm. There was only one person in her life that notably called her by that derogatory name. She hoped she was far away from him now. He was someone ignorant and small-minded. A coward who stood by that night in the drawing room. She tried to think about school, about Harry, about the Ministry, but her brain kept returning to the image of him from that day. His mugshot from the Prophet was seared into her mind; she could still see the smallest hint of a smirk and those aristocratic features including his perfectly defined jaw and pale Pure-blood skin. His styled white-blonde hair. But it was those eyes that unsettled her. Those endless pools of grey made him look innocent when she knew he was anything but.