The day Malfoy had called her a mudblood, the one and only time, it’s one of Hermione’s clearest memories. She had tried to put herself between him and Harry, to stop yet another one of their pointless fights during fourth year, and then he’d spoken those words, ’stay out of it, mudblood, almost dismissively, and Harry had raised his wand, a spell she had never heard before erupting from its tip, Malfoy suddenly on the ground, Nott and Zabini screaming, blood everywhere. No one had punished Harry, his parents had been called and his mother had looked displeased until his father dismissed the whole affair, they had tea with Dumbledore and disappeared while Hermione could still find traces of Malfoy’s blood under her fingernails, no matter how many times she had washed her hands. Malfoy, instead, had been punished, he was barred from participating in Quidditch matches for the rest of the year as Harry got pats on his shoulder for defending her against the slur.