Alastor tumbled out of bed with a groan, his foot catching on the familiar tangle of a rogue sock. "Blast it," he muttered, untangling himself and stumbling towards the door. Another sound cut through the pre-dawn quiet – a choked cough, followed by a clatter that sent his heart leaping into his throat. Panic surged through him as he sprinted down the hallway, his bare feet slapping against the cold wood. He tripped on his own uncoordinated legs, sending a ceramic vase careening off the side table with a sickening crash.
Bursting into the kitchen door, Alastor skidded to a stop, narrowly avoiding a faceplant into a puddle of spilled milk. His eyes widened at the scene before him. His father stood in the center of the room, his face contorted in pain as he clutched his throat and gasped for air. Beside him, a swirling black mist pulsed ominously, tendrils reaching out like grasping fingers.
But what truly broke the tension was the sight on the stove. A smoking pan sat there, filled with a black, unrecognizable mass that vaguely resembled scrambled eggs. Before Alastor could react, his father straightened, a sheepish grin replacing his grimace. "Alastor! You scared the living daylights out of me! I thought…" His voice trailed off as he saw the state of breakfast. "Right, well, maybe we order takeout today. How about pancakes instead of… whatever that is?"
Alastor stared, dumbfounded. First, the black mist, then his father's near-death experience… and now, burnt breakfast? He couldn't help but snort. "Uh, Dad, maybe 'ready' isn't quite the word I'd use." He gestured towards the pan. "Maybe 'attempted' would be more accurate?"