It was in the bleak December when I walked the dark halls of the preparatory school I attended. Dark thoughts warped my perspective as I thought of all that I was learning. A fissure ran through the marble of the floor beneath me. I watched it as I followed the oft-walked path, stopping, my mind lingering on the books of things phantasmagorical that I had been told to read. The weather echoed my sentiments as the snow floated frantically to the ground. I looked up and saw a group of teens my age—my anger welled up inside of me—how dare they judge; how dare they watch me, see me falter, witness my unraveling? I put my middle finger up at them.
"Ebony," said a dark voice. I looked to see none other than my childhood friend, Draco Malfoy. His house was a noble one, but he had fallen on hard times lately, and diseases of the mind were readily visible upon his countenance. His face seemed streaked with tears—or was it makeup? I worried for his safety.
"How do you do on this day of all days?" I inquired, crossing my arms, chilled to the bone by the frosted wind. He looked at me, his eyes rimmed with red from lack of sleep, his face pale.
"I—" he paused, wincing at his lost thought.
I heard the voices of my habitual companions. The devilish teachings of our school were tormenting the minds of all of us.