Dark Lord or White Lord? (1)

Then he lowered his hand, picked up the copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them from the bedside table, turned to the page he had been reading before, and began again. His eyes moved across the page, taking in each word one by one, but one corner of his mind was still thinking about something else.

The scent of cologne. Citrus. Pine. Musk.

He frowned, forced the smell out of his mind, and continued reading.

Outside the window, a cloud drifted across the sun, dimming the light further.

The light in the ward became gloomy and ambiguous. The golden dust drifting down inside the crystal bottles looked especially bright in the shadows, like tiny stars floating in the air, on the verge of going out.

The carnations lost their color in the shadows, but their outlines remained clear, like silent, speechless messengers standing quietly on the bedside table, conveying all the words their departed sender had left unspoken.

Harry glanced at them, then looked away.

He did not want to see them anymore.

But he knew he would not be able to forget them.

Just as he could not forget every word Draco had said.

Harry had not expected Draco's so-called "gift" to arrive so quickly. He saw the newspaper the following morning.

Every morning at seven sharp, Madam Pomfrey shoved the Daily Prophet through the crack beneath the ward door. It had been her unshakable habit for decades. Owls did not deliver newspapers to the Hospital Wing, because Madam Pomfrey claimed owl feathers gave her allergies—though everyone thought that was merely an excuse because she did not want owls shitting all over her territory.

That morning, Harry woke earlier than usual. The bandage around his left arm had loosened during the night from all his shifting, and