Characters: Penelope
Summary: The dissection of a word.
Pairings: None
Author's Note: Personally, I think it would be ironic that someone from a pureblood family would have a last name of Mercer, considering the name originates from the occupation of a trader in textiles (cloth). Maybe they're nouveau riche?
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.

Penelope Clearwater has heard the word before; she doesn't know anyone who hasn't. She's heard it whispered in halls and bandied across the Great Hall (Though never before in a classroom; she wonders now why she never bothered to question that). And she's never really given a second thought to it; she's a busy girl and her mind is focusing on far too much to pay attention to a single, seemingly insignificant word.

That is, until it's spat at her.

Then, everything changes.

It's in Potions class, a class that Penelope's year shares with the Slytherins; somehow, everything that disrupts Penelope's equilibrium and sends her mind reeling seems to arise from the dungeons and the odors, whether fair or foul, that waft up from the cauldrons. Just like everything, it starts in Potions, and that's where the word is first directed at her.

Potions is not Penelope's strong suit (she gets along decently, but works without achieving any outstanding marks), and matters aren't helped by her partner.

Mercer is a tall, coldly handsome Slytherin boy who never smiles and says his words in short, clipped sentences. His demeanor is more than enough to make Penelope, normally far more confident in stance, fumble knives and bottles and stutter her way through sentences.

"Clearwater, I need some more murtlap tentacles for the potion." They're learning to make Murtlap Essence today, and Mercer's too absorbed in the potion-making to be his usual curt self.

Penelope nods—"Right."—and makes her way towards the supply cupboard. She can feel Professor Snape's watchful eye on her the whole time; he is making his rounds of the cauldrons to be sure that no one's on the verge of blowing one up, and he always keeps an eye and an ear trained on the supply cupboard, just waiting for the tinkle of shattering glass. It's a bit unnerving to be looked at as though the Potions professor has a precognitive awareness that she's going to break something.

Well this time she doesn't. Penelope grabs one of the little bottles without a second thought—though she does find herself resisting the urge to shoot a glance at Professor Snape; 'See? I can go without breaking something.'—and makes her way back to where Mercer is poring over their cauldron.

"Give it here," Mercer says absently, holding out a hand and not looking at her. Penelope hands him the bottle, and he uncorks it and empties its contents into the potion.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then everything goes wrong.

The yellow solution in the cauldron goes from yellow to a sickly brown and starts to emit a noxious smell strongly reminiscent of rotten eggs. A foul mist rises from the cauldron.

Mercer's face screws up in a combination of horror and rage. "What…" He whirls round on Penelope. "What was in that bottle you gave me? What?"

Penelope just stares at him in bewilderment—really, they can always just start over—and Mercer snarls. "Idiot Mudblood!" he spits after reading the bottle. "This is dried nightshade!"

Penelope hears nothing beyond 'Mudblood.'

There's that word again, that word that Penelope has heard countless times but never paid any attention to. She's the only one who's listening now; all the other students have their heads bowed over their cauldrons, trying to ignore the scene unfolding before them. For the first time, Penelope has to wonder what it means, and as she looks at Mercer's face, her curiosity only deepens.

Then, Professor Snape is standing over their cauldron, relieving Mercer of the bottle. After looking at it, he fixes Penelope in a decidedly unfriendly stare. "Can you read, Miss Clearwater?"

"Yes, sir," she answers defensively, feeling her cheeks going red.

"Then you must have known that the ingredient you brought back was not the proper one for brewing Murtlap Essence; ten points from Ravenclaw." Penelope feels her flush deepen.

His dark eyes swing to Mercer. "Mr. Mercer, in future you would be advised to control your tongue."

Mercer sets his jaw without looking at Professor Snape. "Yes, sir."

Mercifully, class is over soon after that and students are spilling back into the halls. After she's gotten out into the hall, Penelope walks up to Colleen, another Ravenclaw in her year, and tugs on her sleeve. "Colleen?"

Colleen is fixing the strap on her bag and doesn't look at her. "Yes, Penelope?"

"What does the word 'Mudblood' mean?"

"Shush!" Colleen answers immediately, casting a wary eye on the students around them. "Not so loud."

"What does it mean?" Penelope insists again, staring at her classmate with slightly widened eyes; what is it that makes the other girl react this way?

Colleen gnaws on her lip anxiously. "…Fine," she mutters finally. "It's not going to be the last time someone calls you that, so you might as well know what it means. But not here. Come on, let's go up to the Common Room; I'll tell you there and we can put our books down before eating supper."

When they're seated at a table in the common room (one near the window and away from the main crowd, Penelope notes), Colleen sits across from her, a decidedly apologetic expression on her face. "Listen, Penelope…" she hesitates, pushing her fair hair back from her forehead as an excuse "…what Mercer called you… 'Mudblood'—" her mouth contorts on the word as though it tastes foul in her mouth "—it's a term used to describe Muggleborns, like you. It means 'dirty blood'; it's highly derogatory, and it's used by someone who thinks of Muggleborns as inferior. Mercer's family are blood purists; that sort of attitude tends to crop up in pureblood families."

Penelope can only stare at her, throat dry. "Oh," she manages finally, voice flat. "That's… dehumanizing."

Colleen winces sympathetically. "I think that was the intent, Penelope."

Yes, I suppose it was. Penelope stares out the window. A boy in Gryffindor robes zooms by on a broomstick, followed by another boy identical in dress and appearance. They soon disappear from sight. Her stomach starts to churn, and she gets the feeling of being boxed in—Is that what they think when they see me? Do they just think 'Mudblood' and see nothing else? Am I just an object to them, something to be scorned because it's not up to their standards? Is that all?

She really wishes she hadn't asked now.