They merely watched. Soon, as if they had received some signal, one of the people wearing an Ouroboros Ring withdrew his gaze and turned toward the staircase. The others followed behind him, their steps uniform and their spacing equal, like a finely tuned machine in motion, every component in its proper place.
Rufus Scrimgeour, head of the Auror Office, a wizard renowned for his toughness and pragmatism, had kept his brow tightly furrowed throughout without saying a word. He stood beside the wrought-iron window at the bend in the stairs, leaning against the frame with his arms folded across his chest.
His coat was dark gray, made of heavy fabric, its sharp shoulder seams emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. He had not completely shaved his stubble, leaving a thin blue-gray shadow along the angles of his jaw. His eyes were light gray, their pupils darker than the irises, like cracks embedded between two polished stones. He watched those people come and go, his gaze lingering on one face after another before moving away, lingering, then moving away again. His fingers tapped lightly against his arm, once after another, so softly that he seemed unaware he was moving at all.
He had watched the pure-blood wizards gathered in the middle of the corridor. Their robes and collars lay perfectly flat, while silver serpent patterns flickered in and out beneath the torchlight. When he saw the gray-haired elderly wizard walk away and the witch with the ramrod-straight back still standing there, he withdrew his gaze and lowered it once more to the floor before his feet, as though confirming that every stone slab beneath him was level and none were loose.
He stood there for a long time, until the sounds in the corridor gradually faded and the torch flames steadied