A yellow bead of wax trickles down the stub of a burning taper, the tiny flame battling the bone-numbing chill that invades the school after midnight. The mahogany desk is cluttered – Ministry forms and letters from parents, half-empty inkwells and drafts of missives, the dregs of a glass of brandy, some quills, the Headmaster. This last is slumped over, head resting in the crook of his elbow, uncerimoniously drooling on a letter to Albus Dumbledore: yes, he will come to the Tournament. In sleep, his breathing is measured.
Imperceptibly, the thin red lines on the Headmaster's left forearm grow clearer.