He’d paired the stupid perfect shirt, sleeves cuffed right below his elbows, Dark Mark brazenly on display, with a dark charcoal grey vest and trousers. He’s leaning forward on his forearms against the banister on the second floor that overlooks the main bullpen area. He’d been so uninterested in the conversation Harry was engaged in behind him, that he had physically turned around and was now just lazily scanning the bullpen. 