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The mating habits of mudbloods



She’s crying, blushing with humiliation. She looks up at me and I don’t have the wherewithal to avoid her eyes. “Finite Incantatem,” she mouths and finally repairs her bag and limps toward the hospital wing. Defiance, I could tell what was in her eyes this time. Goyle is making a beeline for her. I turn and say “it’s quidditch practise, let’s go”. It’s not, but I can fly for an hour to make it true.





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