Dark Lord or White Lord? (3)

He remembered what Draco had said yesterday: "I can't guarantee what tomorrow's Daily Prophet headline will be."

Now he knew what the headline was.

And he knew what Draco had meant by a "gift of apology."

It wasn't a fruit basket, carnations, or any of those hypocritical greetings. It was this article. These fabricated lies pinned on him, lies that would turn his life upside down.

"So this was the real gift."

Harry opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.

A thin crack ran across the ceiling from the chandelier to the corner of the wall, like a dried-up riverbed. He stared at it, replaying Draco's expression when he had said those two words—the curve of his lips, the glint in his gray eyes, that certainty that said, "I know you'll be angry, but there's nothing you can do about me."

His hand tightened around the newspaper.

The ward door opened again.

This time, it was Ron. He carried nothing, and there was no smile on his face. His hair was a mess like a bird's nest, the buttons on his robes were fastened wrong, and he looked as though he had rolled out of bed and rushed straight over without even washing his face.

His expression was awful. Not anger, but something more complicated—the look of someone who had been stabbed in the back and had not yet realized who had done it, though he could already see the blood.

"You saw it?" His voice was hoarse.

"I saw it," Harry said.

Ron sat beside the bed, bracing both hands on his knees and staring at the floor. His shoulders were slightly tense, his back faintly hunched, like a branch bent beneath pressure and ready to snap at any moment.

They were silent for a long time.

"Did