VIII: The Frost.

Slowly, I am dying. I am like a wilting flower, collapsing, drawing into myself. Like that flower, people cast me aside with almost no thought. Oh, they might remember how beautiful the flower once was, but have no room in their life for something dead and cold, brittle. No room in their life for one such as me. One who has built a wall around their heart.

The wall has made me cold. I lock away my feelings, refusing to let myself recognise any hopes of friendship, and love. In the mornings, I look out my window to see the frost that has burnt the plants in the overrun garden, and feel as though the frost has burnt my heart to numbness. I feel almost as though I am the frost in the deepest hour of the night, burning those who call me 'friend', keeping them always apart from me, always an arm's length away, always looking elsewhere when they smile.

Almost, I cannot remember what it felt like to be a boy, running through the halls at Hogwarts with his friends, the wolf running through the forest with his companions. The boy who could forget and be accepted is gone. It saddens me, the way I am. Stripped of my friends, stripped of my freedom, I know that I can never be accepted. I can never be normal. The only thing left is the sour shell of a man, ever cynical and without hope.

And always, always untouchable.