Wear Your Crown
There's a crown of thorns upon his head. Maybe it digs in a little. Maybe there's blood trickling down his forehead (drip, drop; drip, drop). But it sits there and people stare and they do not help. He is alone and lonely.
Bequeathed by the ordinary, unsuspecting people of this doomed wizarding society; this halo that sits precariously atop his head screams out his wrong-doings. It's like a howler wailing out his supposed lies. It's weightless but heavy, pulling him down, down.
He stumbles, blindly, through their road of condemnation, his hopes high, ready to be dashed ohso quickly.
He falls, and no one helps, but he's left there, on the ground, with scrapes at his knees and taunts in his ears. His heart is a fierce drum inside his chest.
His crown sends more blood down his cheek, like morbid tears.
There's a crown of thorns upon his head, and they're there for a reason. They're irremovable. People stare, openly, at them, eyes fixated at the wreath of prickling nettles.
The thorns are there, but he can't see them, only feel them, omnipresent and unrelenting.
i think I've mentioned this before, but I love religious references. And this is a pretty big one, I believe. (Based when Harry was accused of making up Voldemort's return in Order of the Phoenix.)