He reached out and pushed open the half-closed iron door. Its hinges made no sound—one of the Hit Wizards had oiled them five minutes earlier. The main building was dimly lit.
Half the wall lamps along the corridor were unlit, while the rest flickered intermittently in the gusts of sea wind.
Douglas's pace did not change as he entered the corridor, but his gaze swept from the first lamp post to the last, pausing for less than half a second at the gaps between every lamp base and the wall.
The Hit Wizards behind him had already dispersed into the branching passages on either side. Their footsteps on the stone were as light as cats crossing the edge of a wooden floor.
Morgan walked half a step behind and to Douglas's right. As he walked, he ran a hand over the old marks on the corridor wall, his fingertips sliding along several parallel scratches. "There's no Anti-Magic Domain residue left on the top two floors of the tower. You can still feel the suppressive field from the third floor down, but it's only at around thirty percent of standard strength."
"Then we came to the right place." Douglas paused before the steps leading to the top floor and looked up at the spiraling stone staircase. Then he continued onward. When his boots landed on the first step, his force was evenly measured; he crossed the same number of steps with every stride, his rhythm like a chain moving at a constant speed.
The top-floor corridor was quiet. The presence of Dementors writhed along the distant ceiling, but none approached.
The iron-barred gate that should have been locked stood open. A thin sheen of oil covered the lock's hinges, as though it had been opened and closed repeatedly lately. He stopped