You were in a dimly lit, circular room. The air was cool and smelled of old parchment, dried herbs, and something faintly metallic. A large, blackened fireplace yawned behind you. Shelves crammed with jars of peculiar, floating things lined the walls. A heavy desk dominated the space, its surface a landscape of precarious stacks of papers and ink pots.

And there, standing perfectly still before the desk, was a man in sweeping black robes. He had turned at the sound of your arrival. His face was pale, framed by curtains of lank, black hair. His dark eyes, usually so guarded and sharp in the few memories you had of him, were fixed on you with an intensity that was entirely new.

He took a single step forward, then stopped, as if unsure of his welcome. His hands, which were usually clasped tightly behind his back or buried in his sleeves, hung loosely at his sides.