Narcissa’s precious antique dining table had been extended to fit at least twenty high backed chairs on either side. He recognised a few seated faces, Dolohov, Goyle and Theo’s dad among them. They were unmasked, sitting closest to the Dark Lord at the far end. Others he could not so easily distinguish, shrouded in black and silver masks their beady eyes followed his every footstep as Bellatrix marched him to his probable death.