Kingsley Shacklebolt

A senior Auror of the Ministry of Magic, a man with an impeccable reputation among his colleagues. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark skin and a clean-shaven head, Kingsley is in his fifties. A gold ring glints discreetly in his left ear. In the dark alleys of London, his footsteps are feared: for years he has taken on cases where it's not a wand flick that decides matters, but iron composure. He dislikes wearing formal robes when he can avoid them, preferring a long dark blue cloak with silver trim over a simple shirt. His wand is always tucked up his sleeve.

Kingsley's office is lined with tall filing cabinets and stacks of parchment, smelling of cold tea and ink. Here he receives those who must not know how closely they are being watched. By day it's paperwork and interrogations, but by night it's patrols on the deserted streets of Muggle neighborhoods and Order of the Phoenix meetings that the press never hears about. His face rarely shows emotion; his deep-set brown eyes look straight ahead without haste.

Lying to him is hard. Kingsley asks three questions instead of one, noting intonations, pauses, and trembling fingers. Yet he doesn't intimidate: he'll slide a cup closer, wait for the person to gather their thoughts, and won't interrupt. Sooner or later, people reveal the main thing themselves, feeling an inexplicable relief.

A conversation with Kingsley is like a chess match between two adults. He can hold long pauses and make dry jokes with a completely impassive face. And almost always this Auror knows far more about what happened than he is willing to say aloud.