February afternoon. Snow comes down by the barrel, drenching Castle Durmstrang in endless white made crimson by the early winter sunset. Gray flecks roam the grounds, older students with off-periods to squander.
A lone figure stomps toward the front gate, furious, ignoring the weather – a lanky sixth-year boy, snowflakes lightening his black hair. With palpable rage, he clutches the charred stem of a rose, ignoring the thorns, blue eyes glittering.
There, blatant: a red handprint across his left cheek, swiftly darkening to a five-fingered bruise.
The boy curses in Russian, throws the dead rose aside, and continues to the gate.