Dragoncrest Cliffs Buffany of House Bufflepuff

Heedless of the pain writhing in the poor boy's chest, his phantoms followed him, but now they were just formless wraiths playing at the edges of his vision. It could as easily have been, and likely was, the play of shadows blurring past as he ran. In spite of knowing that the jeers following him were only in his head, a product of verging on mental collapse, Ephraim recognized that he wasn't truly alone. He felt eyes, real ones, pricking at the back of his neck moments before Vercingetorix called his name, and he threw his head down and barreled onward.

Try as he might, however, he couldn't pretend he hadn't heard. His ears had lifted of their own accord, giving him away and damning him. So he skidded to a stop and rounded on the approaching Cheka, feeling every hair on his body raise in response to fear. Vercingetorix was flanked by sneering shadows. His heart hammered wildly, and the frenzied look in his sunken eyes was the very same as on the battlefield weeks ago. Except that they were wet this time. (When had he started to cry?)

Go away, Verx! he shouted with a thrashing flail of his tail. He couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't be an outsider in his own home, damned by his own blood, a failure at his own role and unable to sleep for the crushing weight of it all.