Chapter Text
Alastor awoke one morning to a letter addressed to him. It laid on his bedside table. A disturbing predicament because this person, whoever they may be, dared to sneak into his room without alerting him. He took the letter. No writing on the outside indicated who it was. Only in fine penmanship was a message written inside,
"Dear Alastor,
Good morning."
His head tilted. Curious: all this effort to bid him good morning? No threats. No blackmail. Not even a valediction. A jest obviously. One of the many guests at the hotel too bored for their own good. He rolled his eyes, scrunched up the letter— if he could even call it that— and tossed it into the fireplace. The flames burned hungrily as it quickly consumed the page. Alastor got ready just as swift. With a snap of his fingers, he was cleaned and dressed in his usual attire and set out for the day.