The Dark Mark on his left forearm was as crisp as the day he probably received it, but of course to a Muggle it was just a tattoo. His platinum blonde hair hung over his forehead, feathering his brow in that roguish way only someone with that much innate swagger could pull off. Midwinter eyes, still sharp and piercing, peered down as his long, lithe fingers strummed a few chords to finely tune the instrument now slung over his broad shoulders. 