Another stood with his hands behind his back, his gaze lingering on Lockhart's profile for a while, as though counting how many times he tilted his head when answering. That gaze did not seem to be looking at a person, but rather at a branch that could still spring back on its own after being bent. The third person had not spoken at all, merely leaning against the wall with both hands in his pockets. After a while, he withdrew his gaze from the crowd, turned, and headed for the street corner. His boot sole ground against the paving stones with a dry scraping sound, quickly swallowed by the surrounding chatter.
By the time the crowd finally parted enough to leave a gap, Lockhart had already walked down the corridor to the street corner. He nodded to the shadowy figure waiting for him beside the fireplace. The person said nothing, only picked up a handful of Floo Powder and threw it into the hearth. Surging green flames leaped up, sparks scattering across the fireplace rim before dimming again.
Lockhart stepped inside, and the flames closed behind him, taking away his blue robes.
After he left, the reporters gathered up their pens and light meters in twos and threes. Someone looked at an ink-splattered sleeve, cursed under their breath, and raised a wand to cast a Cleaning Charm. The woman in pale green robes remained on the steps. She tucked the recording pen tip from when Lockhart had spoken into the lining of her bag, and the zipper made a fine rustling sound as she pulled it shut.
Those gaps were filled in by the readers' own imaginations. And that was exactly the space Lockhart had left for the reporters.
When Lockhart received the Daily Prophet's interview invitation, he was organizing