The auror who interrogated her in St. Mungos was a perfectly boring looking man with a thin, pencil-line moustache and militantly parted grey hair. He wore a dark charcoal overcoat and the quill that bobbed in midair next to him was a squarish brown owl feather, none of the usual peacock or eagle feather frippery. Every time one of them spoke, the quill zoomed across the scroll, taking fastidious notes with a quiet  scrit-scrat, scrit-scrat . 