Setting: Lockhart's apartment (back date please to before Lockhart's meeting with Rita)
The only light in the room emanated from the fireplace, where exuberant golden flames were licking their way up the chimney. The cheery quality of the fire could not have been more out of tune with my own emotions. I sat dejectedly in an armchair, twirling my peacock feather quill moodily between my fingers. The reason for my gloom was simple; I was suddenly parched of words. For about two days now, I had been completely unable to put pen to paper and produce anything with suitable sophistication. In fact the best I'd created was 'The Bulgarian foothills are wet'. Hardly the stuff of legend. To cap it all, my book's release date had been delayed. I was staring bleakly into the true meaning of war - bad sales. What a curse!
"Now Gilderoy," I said quietly to myself, "what you need is a good stiff drink. You'll have the words back in no time, I'm certain." Galvanised slightly, I sprang to my feet and began to make my way towards the kitchen.