#potfoy

A source confirmed that Azkaban guards found Lucius Malfoy dead in his cell on Sunday morning, the article reads, followed by a brief overview of his crimes. Malfoy is survived by his wife, Narcissa. The couple had no children. The inheritance of Malfoy Manor, which famously served as the base for You-Know-Who and his followers for much of the past three years, is uncertain…

A small black-and-white photograph of the Malfoys accompanies the text. Lucius and Narcissa stand nearly motionless, with an awkward gap between their stiffly upright figures. The only movement is Narcissa’s right hand, which lifts into the empty space, palm out, on an endless loop, without ever touching her husband. They’re a cold and fiercely proud couple: Harry knows this because he has met them many times, most recently at Narcissa’s trial, when he testified about her subterfuge during the Battle of Hogwarts. He wonders why Lucius served on the Hogwarts Board of Directors when he had no children.

Harry closes the paper. His hands are trembling. There’s something deeply wrong about this news. Perhaps its brevity: the Malfoys are an ancient and respected family, and despite their crimes it seems absurd that Lucius should die with so little acknowledgment. Or perhaps it’s the coyness: the subtext heavily implies that Lucius suicided, and this too bemuses Harry, who knows Lucius only had a few months left to his six-month sentence. Harry is certain that entire volumes of the story have been left unwritten, but feels confused about what details those volumes might contain.

It happens as he refolds the paper and moves to lay it aside.

Something flickers at his side -- Harry gets an impression of ghostlike colourlessness and thinness and height -- but when he sucks in a breath and turns to look, the figure is gone.

He blinks.

And then -- the folded newspaper, still loosely held in his right hand, is wrenched from his grasp and flung out on the table beside him. Pages turn until the Malfoys stare out from the fourth-page article about Lucius’s death.

Harry says, “Did anyone…” But the Great Hall is nearly empty and for once no one is looking his way.

A cold chill crawls up his neck. Harry reaches out to tug the paper back toward him, but something holds it fast to the table. No, someone -- abruptly Harry notices two long, slender male hands laid flat against the paper; they vanish just above the wrist. The right hand bears a large ring on the third finger. Hands and ring alike are devoid of colour.

Harry isn’t surprised to find his wand in his hand. After a momentary hesitation, he prods the strange left hand with his wand’s tip, which passes through the grey flesh as if it were fog. The person -- if it really is a person -- takes no notice; the hand doesn’t so much as twitch.

Because he’s staring so hard at the hands, he doesn’t immediately notice the droplets of liquid appearing on the newspaper. He can’t see them fall, but he sees them land, splotching the text and darkening the paper in little irregular circles smaller than a knut.

Harry reaches toward the strange grey hand -- and is shocked to touch flesh, solid flesh, warm and dry -- for half a moment only; then --

Harry kicks at the grass and says, frustrated, “Yes, but -- why did the Remembrall need to be caught? Why did I have to fly to catch it? Who threw it?”

Ron cocks his head, considering, and Harry wonders if Ron’s replaying the same strangely nonsensical scene that’s been troubling him: Neville plummeting earthward, the horrid crack of his arm breaking, Pince removing the groaning boy...and then Harry seizing a broom and hurtling into the air, and the clean joyous rush of that first flight is so vivid, but what happens before and in the middle of it -- exactly what made him mount the broom, and why he halted for several moments before diving down -- those details are foggy. There’s a definite sensation of fury directed towards someone, but -- and here’s where Harry strains the hardest -- he’s not sure who.

“I dunno,” Ron finally says. “I don’t remember anyone throwing it. Probably one of the snakes levitated it and then broke the charm. But it was a long time ago, Harry. I can hardly remember what happened last week. Why’s this bothering you so much?”

“No reason,” says Harry lightly, and then, because Ron is still frowning at him -- his friends already worry too much about him -- he says, “Someday I’ll have to write my memoirs, won’t I? Can’t have them riddled with holes.”