"He looks like a ghost," Ron muttered, leaning over Harry’s shoulder. "A ghost that’s still angry about being dead."
As the fire flickered, the light played tricks on the image. For a split second, the madness in Black’s eyes seemed to soften into something else—anguish, perhaps, or a desperate kind of recognition. Harry reached out, his thumb hovering just over the edge of the moving picture. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban image
He didn't know yet that this image was a lie. He didn't know that the man screaming behind the bars wasn't the villain of his story, but a piece of his past trying to scream its way back into the light. All Harry knew was that the photograph felt cold to the touch, and the winter outside the castle walls was only getting darker. "He looks like a ghost," Ron muttered, leaning
In the moving image, Black was screaming. His hair was a matted, skeletal mane, and his eyes burned with a manic intensity that seemed to pierce right through the glass of the frame. Every few seconds, the man in the photo would throw his head back in a silent, jagged laugh that made the hair on Harry’s neck stand up. Harry reached out, his thumb hovering just over