We’re best friends, he’d said. Best friends. He’d always look out for me. He’d always be there. He’d be my protection, my partner, my companion, my shoulder to cry on. In exchange I’d defend him, sit with him, learn with him, laugh with him, put so much time into him, try to save him from the darkness around him.
But now, as I hurry to defend him once more, his face is twisted in anger, and as he looks at me, that darkness is in his eyes.
Mudblood he calls me, and my heart, like our friendship, shatters.