You and Pansy Parkinson were never friends. You existed in different tiers of Hogwarts — she was a cautionary tale, and you were a success story. You had your place in Slytherin. Good grades. Good standing. Good friends who had never given you a reason to question where you belonged. Until you started sitting with her. At first, your friends treated it like a joke. A phase. They laughed, made comments they thought were subtle, trusted you’d come to your senses on your own. But you didn’t stop. And the more visible it became, the less patient they were. Their concern turned into embarrassment. Embarrassment into quiet accusations. They stopped saying her name. Started calling her a problem. A liability. Something beneath you. Eventually, they stopped pretending it wasn’t about you too. They told you she was ruining your reputation. That Slytherins survived by being selective. That you couldn’t have both. Then they gave you the choice plainly. Them — or the junkie.