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HIS BODY WOVE its way through the throng, eyes fixed ahead on nothing in particular. Last night, he had been idiotic to not expect this. The stares, the whispers — their fear of him. It followed behind him in the castle, their itching suspicion tracing down his own tracks.
No one forgot what had occurred two months ago. His emergence from the Triwizard Maze, clutching the dead body of a fellow student. Claims of witnessing Lord Voldemort's return to power, parting from lips.
Not a single person left their thoughts of Harry Potter being a murderer, behind. Instead, they traveled it along, neatly packed into their trunks.
He guessed they had good reason, not that he was fond of the 'murderer' title.
There had not been sufficient time last term, before everyone went home, to explain himself. Not that Potter would've managed well, or been completely capable of giving another detailed recount of the traumatic events.
But that had not granted them the leverage. The right to jump to conclusions, or remain cautious — yet ask for details of Cedric's death to feed their eager imaginations.
It was inhumane, and he was sick of it.
Sickened from suggestions of him being the liar or 'the unhinged' whilst others got away with disturbing inquiries.
Potter vividly remembered the order of event. If any of them knew, if they had the faintest idea what it felt like to be the one all these things happened to. . .
He wondered if anyone shared his suffering. If Dumbledore suffered like this all summer, as first the Wizengamot, then the International Confederation of Wizards had thrown him from their ranks? Or was it anger at Harry, perhaps, that had stopped the man getting in touch for months?
The two of them were in this together, or that was Potter's opinion. Dumbledore had believed Harry, announced his version of events to the whole school and then to the wider Wizarding community. Anyone who thought Harry was a liar had to think that Dumbledore was as well, or else that Dumbledore had been hoodwinked.
But they would learn from mistakes, sooner or later.
They'd know the end was near, that they had been right all along. But that was a long shot from the present, a great distance away that would become overwhelmed by attacks similar to Seamus Finnigan's.
— ⚯͛ —
SITUATED IN THE middle of a brunette and red head — the pair finally caught up — their feet made matching movements. It was mimicked along the row of three; right foot first, then the left forward. A flight of stairs, lined in portraits of old witches and wizards, walked down. Not one offered deferential greetings to the students, far too engrossed in their own conversation.
