CHAPTER SEVEN
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 caul-
dron the right way up.”
“An’ they haven’t invented a spell our Hermione can’ do,” said
Hagrid proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta.
“It’s a disgusting thing to call someone,” said Ron, wiping his
sweaty brow with a shaking hand. “Dirty blood, see. Common
blood. It’s ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood any-
way. If we hadn’t married Muggles we’d’ve died out.”
He retched and ducked out of sight again.
“Well, I don’ blame yeh fer tryin’ ter curse him, Ron,” said Ha-
grid loudly over the thuds of more slugs hitting the basin. “Bu’
maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired. ’Spect Lucius Mal-
foy 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,” said Hagrid abruptly as though struck by a sudden
thought. “Gotta b