Dark Lord or White Wizard? (2)

It was not because they did not want to come, but because they did not know how to face him. He was the one under suspicion, the one said to be Slytherin's heir, the one everyone talked about behind his back but no one dared question to his face.

Now they had come. They had come early in the morning, waiting in the corridor.

Because of that article.

Harry suddenly understood. Beneath the covers, his hand clenched into a fist, his nails digging into his palm. It hurt, but that pain was nothing compared to the heavy feeling in his chest, as though someone had stuffed it full of wet cotton.

They had not come to visit him. At least, that was not their main purpose.

They had come to confirm it. To see whether he was really the sort of person described in the newspaper. They might bring gifts, cautious smiles, and questions that sounded like questions but were really demands for reassurance.

They were afraid.

Afraid that he had truly become some kind of Dark Lord, afraid that he would really "purge" Muggle-borns.

Afraid that he would hold their past suspicions against them—the times they had gone out of their way to avoid him, the moments when corridors had suddenly fallen silent—and settle each score one by one when he finally ascended the throne.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The bandages were still wrapped around his left arm, and the ointment was still warm, but he felt cold all over. Cold to the bone.

"Let them in," he said, his voice calmer than he had expected.

Seamus was the first to enter.

He held a huge box wrapped in gold foil, tied with a red ribbon knotted into an elaborate bow that looked fit