If there is an art to keeping a magical school from collapsing into total farce, I have yet to master it. Every morning I vow to be dignified, prepared, perhaps even slightly regal. Every evening I fall into bed with jam in my hair, diplomatic immunity in question, and at least one new reason to avoid the kitchens.
This day began, as all great tragedies do, with breakfast.
I arrived at the dining hall to find it in a state of mild hysteria. The tables were set, the toast was—miraculously not on fire, and the portraits of former headmasters were only bickering quietly in their frames. But a subtle wrongness hung in the air. Students were poking at their porridge with wary expressions. The staff wore the tight-lipped look of those who have survived magical food poisoning before and do not wish to repeat the experience.
