Set a few years after Voldemorts defeat when the world has settled down again and normal wizarding life has been resumed.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
On a warm summers day, a newspaper caught by the wind blew through the streets of Diagon Alley. Each individual broad sheet came loose from its cheap metal fastening and filled the street where many witches and wizards were bustling their way through the crowds. Some sheets of the paper fell to the cobbled pavement and were quickly trampled underfoot, whilst others soared into the sky brushing past the heads of disgruntled wizards in their bid for freedom. More newspapers joined in, all flying away from the same knocked over stand just outside knockturn alley. Beside the stand stood two young wizards, one attempting to catch the newspapers as they escaped and the other standing still, his mind still in shock with his foot still entangled in the leg of the stall. A final page, caught by a strong breeze, rose up into the air. Both wizards jumped for it, their hands brushing against it's wafer thin corner but neither of them were quite tall enough to grab hold. As the wizards fell back to earth, the page lifted higher into the air and was swept by a current over the roofs of the shops lining the street.
It travelled through the air, unnoticed by the passers-by below until it hit into the chimney of Flourish and Blotts which halted it's journey for a few seconds before it escaped around the side, continuing it's journey over the roofs. But like all things that go up - it had to come down - and a magical newspaper was no exception to gravity. The wind current dwindled and it began to descend, fluttering in the fading breeze. But this sheet of paper was not to become like the others abandoned on the ground and crumbled under heavily booted feet, it was lucky enough to be caught in a simple charm before it could get any closer to the ground. The charm came from a wand reaching out a cracked open window, on the second floor of an old looking building. The streets below were thronged with people but not one of them thought to look up, too engaged in their own conversations. The glass of the window was cracked and dusty, having not been cleaned in many years, but the boy on the other side of the glass clutching onto his wand didn't mind or even notice. He gave his wand a flick and the newspaper floated softly towards the window and through the gap. Withdrawing his wand, he silently closed the window, careful not to draw any attention to himself from passers-by, though his efforts weren't needed as the rest of the world was oblivious to his existence.
Noises from the pub downstairs drifted up into his room, but he ignored it and turned away from the window, leaning his back against it's dirty grey surface to allow light to fall down on the slightly crumpled paper in his hands. The title of the paper was The Daily Prophet and the article on the page was written in four columns, two on either side of a magically charmed moving picture in the middle. The picture showed a woman, dressed in a dark green trench coat covered with a pattern of faded gold swirls with a line of old-fashioned buttons running up the centre. Her hair, tied in a tight ponytail at the back of her head was bleach blonde, apart from a small patch of black at the top. Her eyes kept glancing at the camera and then turning to stare at a man to her left dressed in a long black cloak, who was hiding his face from the camera. A wisp of blonde hair could be seen over the top of his hands, becoming slightly more visible each time he turned to his wife and tried to duck his head behind the collar of the coat.
The title of the article read: Malfoys Proven Death Eaters.
And the headline underneath read: Son still missing.
The paper was crushed violently by the pale hands of the boy who held it. He kept screwing it up until it was as small as he could make it, then threw it against the wall opposite, dislodging peeling paint that had barely been hanging on since it first started to peel many years ago. The shabby cream coloured flakes drifted to the floor to lie with the crumpled heap. The boy flicked his wand, and the paper erupted into flames, leaving only a small pile of black ashes and a small black stain at the base of the wall.
The stairs outside the boy's door creaked loudly as heavy footsteps sounded. He ignored them, and swung himself around to face out the window once again. As the light hit his face, a small trail of water on his right cheek reflected the light. He hastily wiped it away, cursing his eyes, and ran a hand through his ghost white hair. It fell back over his eyes like it always did, flopping over the left side of his face and obscuring his vision, though the tears flooding from his tear ducts were doing a good job of blinding him anyway.
He raised a sleeve to the window, and rubbed a away some of the dust, giving himself a better look outside. He could see the sign of the pub he was staying in just to the right of the window, swinging backwards and forwards in the wind that was gaining strength once again. On the pavement outside lay some tattered remains from a few newspapers that had caught on people's shoes as they'd walked through diagon alley.
His stomach rumbled. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. Sighing, he stumbled to his feet. The pub downstairs was awfully busy at this time, late afternoon, but he was sure he might be able to find a table in a corner to eat alone, and anyway, maybe one of the conversations downstairs would interest him. It was better than spending another evening all alone cooped up in this room.