Fudge tore the tie from his collar. He did not slowly undo it; he yanked it off hard, snapping the knot between his fingers. The black silk ribbon crumpled in his palm. He clenched it for a while, then let go and tossed it carelessly onto the table.
The tie rolled onto the floor like a black sparrow, crushed to death and still warm. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. There was no sweat there, but his fingers paused as they passed over his brows, as though checking whether something was there.
"Who does Dumbledore think he is? Does he have any regard at all for me, the Minister for Magic?!" Fudge's voice squeezed out of his throat, hoarse and carrying a suppression that had built up for far too long.
"He walks in, stands there, says a few words offhand, and every wizard in the courtroom has to watch his expression! And he kept looking at me. What did he mean by that?! Was he trying to make me yield? Obviously... obviously everyone knew—those things he said were meant for me to hear."
The wizard in the dark gray robes said nothing. He shifted his gaze from Fudge to the closed oak door. His eyes moved slowly over the grain in the wood, from one line to another, as though studying a painting.
The Ouroboros badge at his collar flashed once more, its light faint, as though something had deliberately dimmed it.
The man in the black suit shifted his cigar from his right hand to his left. "Minister, you are too tense. Relax. Hasn't Dumbledore always been like this for over a century? He has stood here talking for so many years, and he still has not tired of it."
Fudge tugged open his