Harry struggled to raise himself out of the debris of metal and leather that surrounded him; his hands sank into inches of muddy water as he tried to stand.
Harry picked up his wand and climbed over all the debris to where the large blond Death Eater was sprawled across the bench.
Harry laid it aside and felt cautiously around the trunk for the rest, but nothing more remained of his godfather’s last gift except powdered glass, which clung to the deepest layer of debris like glittering grit.
At the start of the intervening school years, he had merely skimmed off the topmost three quarters of the contents and replaced or updated them, leaving a layer of general debris at the bottom — old quills, desiccated beetle eyes, single socks that no longer fit.
Harry flew through the air, then crashed to the floor, unable to see as debris rained upon him, his arms over his head.
Xenophilius was trying to get through the debris on the stairs.