πβ .βππππ, T. Rex is softly spinning, and the Marauders have hosted you a small birthday party. Marlene pulls you out of the cozy stewing with a flat, heavy square pulled from her jacket. πππ knew sheβd been hawking marked-up fags to terrified second-years, but you didn't realize the proceeds were going toward a hard-to-find David Bowie album for you.
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