Closest To Heaven That I'll Ever Be

2. Calm Down

So that pretty much ended my friendship with the Golden Trio.

Seven years.

Seven years of friendship, adventures, near-death experiences and an alarming number of situations that should have resulted in at least one of us being expelled, arrested or killed.

Probably all three, actually.

We had survived trolls, Basilisks, Dementors, Death Eaters, Ministry officials, possessed professors, escaped prisoners, dragons, cursed objects and Harry's apparently endless ability to attract disaster.

We had slept in the same dormitories, eaten at the same tables, studied together, argued together and broken more school rules than I cared to count.

I had spent years believing that made us family.

Not just friends.

Family.

The sort you chose.

The sort you trusted completely because you'd already seen the worst of each other and somehow stayed anyway.

And Malfoy Manor was what finally broke it.

Not one enormous betrayal built over years.

One moment. One crack. One second where Harry looked directly at me, panic flashed across his face, and then he disappeared.

With my wand. Without me.

I could forgive a lot.

I had forgiven a lot.

I'd forgiven Harry for dragging us into danger without stopping to consider whether the rest of us wanted to follow.

I'd forgiven Ron for the things he said when he was angry and the way he had a remarkable ability to speak before his brain had caught up with his mouth.

I'd forgiven Hermione for occasionally treating the rest of us as though we were particularly slow first-years who required detailed instructions to function.

I'd forgiven arguments.

Secrets. Recklessness. Being overlooked. Being forgotten.

I'd forgiven birthdays where the three of them got so wrapped up in whatever crisis was happening that mine passed almost unnoticed.

I'd forgiven whispered conversations that stopped when I entered the room because apparently whatever they were discussing was only for the three of them.

I'd forgiven plans being made without me and then being told afterwards because everyone simply assumed I would agree.

I usually did.

That was probably part of the problem.

I'd forgiven being the one who patched them up after their latest disaster and then somehow ended up sitting alone while the three of them discussed what had happened as though I hadn't been there.

I'd forgiven hearing Harry, Ron and Hermione so often that eventually I stopped expecting anyone to add my name.

I'd spent seven years forgiving things because they were my friends and, as far as I was concerned, that was what you did for the people you loved.

You made allowances. You understood. You gave them the benefit of the doubt. You told yourself they hadn't meant it that way. You convinced yourself that being included most of the time was the same thing as belonging.

And for a long time, that had been enough.

But apparently even I had a limit.

And being left behind, wandless and bleeding, in a manor filled with Death Eaters, a psychotic witch and a werewolf seemed like a perfectly reasonable place to draw the line.