"The Weasleys were even invited, but they never came of course. For some reason though, Neville did. His grandmother allowed it, despite—well. Everything. And I thought he was sweet, and I had no clue of course who his parents were or what happened to them. What it all meant. I was ten. It was a garden party—they almost always were, with it being June. And the Manor grounds are spectacularly large—you know that—perfect for that sort of thing. We tried to climb a tree together. He was awfully clumsy and I wasn’t much better, but we had so much fun. It was only later I was told how big of a mistake I’d made, being nice to the boy who was only there for show. How he and his family are—were, blood traitors, and all of that terrible nonsense that was pushed down our throats. And the other children laughed at me, when they saw the tear in my dress and the mud on my hands. And I realised then how desperately I never wanted any of them to laugh at me again. How terrified I was of turning into—him. Pushed aside. So when we finally reunited that September for First Year, I looked at this sweet boy, this fair-haired, round-faced, lovely, clumsy, awkward angel of a boy who gave me a handful of daisies at Draco’s tenth birthday party, and I laughed at him." 