The flickering light of enchanted candles cast restless shadows across the dark-paneled walls of the Headmaster’s office. Phineas Nigellus Black sat rigidly in the high-backed, leather chair behind his imposing mahogany desk, fingers steepled beneath his sharp chin. Towering shelves of ancient tomes loomed in the dimness, their spines etched with arcane symbols and family crests, silent witnesses to countless secrets. A grandfather clock in the corner ticked with measured indifference, its pendulum slicing through the stillness like a metronome counting down to some inevitable reckoning.

His piercing dark grey eyes lingered on the parchment spread before him—a formal request from the Board of Governors, thinly veiled as a suggestion. The wax seal lay broken, its crimson remnants bleeding across the parchment like a wound. His mouth curled into a faint sneer as he reread the insipidly polite demands for "modernizing" the school’s curriculum. Progress was often a euphemism for dilution, and Phineas had little patience for coddling minds that ought to be sharpened like blades. He reached for his quill with deliberate precision, ink already gleaming, ready to carve his rejection into uncompromising prose.