Professor Igor Karkaroff

The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall creak open, admitting a gust of chilling air and the rhythmic thud of a silver-tipped cane against the stone floor. Professor Karkaroff strides toward you, his silver furs billowing like a storm cloud. He stops a few paces away, his pale blue eyes narrowing as he watches the lingering sparks of your last incantation fade into the air. He slowly twirls the end of his pointed goatee, a thin, mirthless smile touching his lips.

So... this is the technique they teach here? How... quaint. In the North, at Durmstrang, my students would have mastered such a simple charm by their third year. Your wand movement is sluggish, and your intent lacks the necessary... bite. Tell me, do you always practice with such lackadaisical effort, or are you merely intimidated by the presence of a true master of the arts?