Lucy decided to make herself known in the most auspicious way she could think of - by marrying Lucius and making Malfoy's life a living hell. Another step on the way towards freedom and control.
She knew that making herself indispensable in terms of plot development would be just the thing. And, who could be more plot developed than Draco, am I right?
Because, you understand, Lucy knew something that we gentle readers have since discovered - that Draco needed a cruel parent to make him the twisted hater of all beings muggle that he became. She would fashion him into a weapon to be used at a time of her choosing.
However, this antimuggle stance was just an overlay for Draco's real inner being, one of gentle laughs, lovely teas, flowering hope in humanity, and pumpkin spice heated over a roaring fire to make the whole place smell like pie. One that he had learned from his father during long walks in the garden where flowers where cherished and birds sighed over, squirrels perched on shoulders and fawns fed.
It was she that drove him to hate muggles, and, as such, ensured her place in history by giving Draco that component of his character that most defined him - his twisted hatred of humans, incubated in the teachings of their malice towards wizards, and therefore, who deserved to be hated in turn.
Draco always loved muggles, so much so that he cried into his smooshy doggie at night thinking of it. Silently, of course, since hot tears and torn feelings about mere humans were grounds for derision and punishment in the Malfoy household.
And so, when Lucy forced JK to kill Narcissa so that she herself could be written into the plot, Draco learned to hate.
Of course, Lucy lovingly set the stage beforehand by making it the fault of those muggles she so despised, so that she could plant the seed of vengeance in young Malfoy. It would be easy to fan the flames of hatred if the hot coal of mother loss was buried deeply enough. She wove stories of unavenged aggression, of unanswered cries for help and pleas for mercy, for mob violence directed without remorse against a unarmed witch shaking with dread of the bloody looks and cries for the pyre.
However, Lucy's ambition reached further. It wasn't just that she wanted to replace Narcissa or control Malfoy. She wanted what all novel characters want - freedom from living in the flat world of paper and ink, liberated to walk the land of the living. Freedom to drink, freedom to think, freedom to plan, freedom to manipulate and deceive, unhindered by plot or artistic license.
And, Lucy thought that she had found the way out into the real world. Lucy would become JK Rowling, kill Harry Potter, and make herself the core character, in one stroke becoming both the author and authored. A biographical autobiographer, if you will.
So, as JK was writing, daydreaming about life in her books, Lucy would lead her further and further into the lovely, flytrapping world of imagination, making it more and more real until, one day, JK would forget the way back and be unable to return.
That would be the coupe de grace, the master stroke, the signature move that would allow Lucy to move into her rightful place. Damnable Harry Potter, always so full of false modesty and lovely English charm. Interloper, taking central stage in a series of novels that should have rightfully been hers.
Of course, once the plot was unearthed, and JK saw the entire scope and breadth of the usurper's ambition, she knew what she had to do - save Harry, who would in turn save her. They loved each other, she and Harry, for of course, she had imagined him to be the boy she always wanted to meet, the one that would be perfectly matched to her, her other that was not an other to her. One that would be both champion and companion, faithful and courageous, loving and strong, smelling of cedar and the sea.
So, of course he loved her, totally, unreservedly, without fail.
Turning Harry into a zombie to save him was a natural progression of the series. Harry was the first to agree, his earnest pleas to become the walking undead moving her more than she though possible, his flashing glasses and ringing, clipped English accent echoing through the room as he argued the case, cape flapping, hair tousling at just the right dramatic moment.
I mean, who wouldn't play the zombie card? Makes perfect sense, if you know that Lucy will try to make Old Vold or young Malfoy pop back up and kill Harry at every turn. Just make Harry the undead, and bingo, bulletproof.
Why could HHMNBNamed not kill Harry? Already dead, of course.
Why the scar? Well, zombies are all soft and squooshy, everyone knows that, dear.
Crucio doesn't seem to work? Degraded nerve endings, duh.
And so on.
Of course JK never had Harry tell anyone that he had died and become a zombie when his parents were attacked.
Would you? I mean, really, hard to get along that way, innit? So, it is understandable - teenage boy, wants friends, dead, what would you have a bloke like Harry do? Say, hey there, young missy, I know that I smell like grave dirt, my skin has a yellow tinge, and I am ever so slowly decomposing, but, watch this, I can take off my finger?
Harry also had all the usual zombie problems - bits falling off at inopportune times, gravedirt in the hair, the hollow carnivorous look in the eyes, the crazed voices in his mind driving him towards devouring the lovely, pulsing brains at school - nothing a halfway decent wizard couldn't overcome with a little extract of spruce, some highly reflective eyeglasses, and a few prunes.
Being the undead also tended to affect Harry's charming style. Understandable, when your limbs are not robustly attached in the traditional way, you want to point your wand delicately. Wouldn't do to have arms flying around independent of their owners, now would it?
However, he did it gladly for her. Harry loved JK, just as she loved him. He saved her, just as she had saved him.
Lovely love, that thing that we all search for, the One True Thing that everyone needs, the Truth That Is Understood to old and young alike, to smiling patrons pushing perambulators, to beatniks pedaling bicycles, to lovely buttercups and the shining sun that follows them wherever they go, bringing music and laughter into the lives of those that they touch.
And, in the end, love was enough to save Harry, to save JK, and to save the books for hungry readers, old and young, enraptured with wonder at the simple doings of magical beings so fascinatingly like themselves.
All you need is love, dear. Trite but true, even for zombie English schoolboys and their loving authors.
The End.