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The thing is, you learn things, being a Mudblood in You-Kno—in Voldemort’s Britain, fleeing Snatchers and standing trial for the crime of not tearing up that funny-looking envelope the minute the owl brought it to you.
You learn you’re a victim by default, and what you do with that is entirely up to you. Everything makes their own choice; there’s Waterford, who still can’t look anyone in the eye. There’s Harry Potter’s friend Granger, who chose to fight and got an Order of Merlin, First Class; there’s your school friend Collins who decided the same thing and got himself killed for his trouble.
And then there’s you.
Dull as ditchwater, they called you back at Hogwarts, clever enough, but dull. The Muggle-born Registration Commission called you “admirably compliant” when you immediately admitted to stealing your wand and your magic, groveled magnificently, and stole away from the courtroom with only your wand and your future and your self-respect confiscated.
You don’t much like to think of the months that followed on the streets. You’d had bad months before, between jobs, but nothing like this. The streets were where you met Waterford, still shaken from her brief stint in Azkaban. That was where you heard Collins was dead.
You were still on the streets when you heard Harry Potter had killed the Dark Lord again, but by then it wasn't so bad. You'd learned to do what it took to survive.
They said all was well after that. Muggle-borns were just as good as anyone else again, wasn’t that enough, don’t you see Hermione Granger up there, basking in the admiration of the crowds? She’s not any worse for wear, and no more should you be. And you smiled, and made affirmative noises, and investigated the times deliveries were made to Gringotts. Fairy merchandise seems most promising, and after the months spent begging in Knockturn Alley, you're fairly confident you know the shopkeepers who won't ask too many questions afterwards.
Even cleaning after yourself will be easy enough. (Expungio biscotti--you and Collins came up with that in fifth year outside the Charms corridor for a lark, just before you screwed up all your courage and pecked him on the lips: a mistake, as it turned out, but nonetheless not a regret. You’d like to think he’d appreciate the joke.
You’d like to forget that he’d never approve, not that it makes much difference. Dead is dead.)
The thing is, once you’ve learned you’re a victim, you never quite forget it.—or how to turn it into a weapon in your hands. When you close your eyes, you remember Waterford weeping in her sleep, the last time you saw Collins, your own high, childish voice pleading: here's my wand, please take it, only don't, don't lock me away. You think you might as well do something to deserve the memories. There’s only one bad moment, when a sour-faced witch from Law Enforcement and her sweet-voiced partner question you—and you pull out your wand, and stammer an excuse, so willing to help, so frightened, so very pathetic an example of their recent atrocities that it’s all a decent woman (or a not-so-decent one, given how the older witch sneers) can do to let you go free. And then you're on your way, a fortune in fairy treasure waiting for you. You can't quite believe your luck. You can't seem to let go of your wand and dingy handbag, though the witches from Law Enforcement are long gone. You can't wait until you can do this again.
All is well, just like they said--in fact, considering your purposes, it's better.