It was not that he "finished looking at the bookshelf and walked away," but that he "passed by it." Like an actor walking from one end of the stage to the other, passing props along the way—the desk, chairs, sofa, trophy case—but those props were not him, did not belong to him. He was merely passing through them. His stride did not change, but his posture did.
It did not change suddenly. It happened slowly, as though someone were using an invisible, exceedingly slow knife to shave downward from his shoulders, lowering them by an inch, bending his back by a degree, drawing his chin in slightly.
With every step, he became a little shorter, a little lighter, a little thinner.
The gentle professor standing beside Harry, back straight and wearing a standard smile at the corners of his mouth, became someone with drooping shoulders and lowered head, someone who seemed to shrink himself with every step, like a fan slowly folding shut.
He passed the trophy display case. It was oak, dark brown, its glass doors polished bright enough to reflect his image. The case was filled with trophies—Annual Best Smile Award, Most Charming Smile Award, Hogwarts' Most Popular Professor Award. Every trophy was gold, silver, or crystal. Every trophy bore his name. Every trophy gleamed.
He did not look at them. His reflection slid across the glass like a pale blue, blurred ghost vanishing away.
He walked to the desk. Several open books lay spread across its surface, their page edges marked with pencil strokes that were tiny and neat, as though drawn against a ruler. The ink bottle stood uncapped, a ring of dried ink staining its mouth. A quill rested inside, its tip immersed in black ink that was creeping up the nib.
He stopped before