Four dots, a barbecue grill; three dots, a portable stove; two dots, a low-powered heater; one dot, a fireplace piled high with fiercely burning wood-this was not a list of prizes for some winter-themed supermarket scratch-card promotion in the Muggle World.
Rather, these were the temperatures radiating from Brian's body as the remaining dots in the countdown on his chest decreased-his magical power had gone completely berserk, swelling suddenly like kernels in so many popcorn machines, within his blood and between his organs.
There was now one minute left before Voldemort perished completely, and only one minute before the countdown ended. Brian did not understand why the countdown to Voldemort's death had been imprinted on him. It was an unsettling unknown, yet he was unexpectedly calm now. He even felt a little like turning his head and taking a nap on the table, but that would not be a wise choice, because the table would catch fire.
Thought and deep concern had lingered in Dumbledore's azure eyes for more than ten minutes. Clearly, he too had failed to find a good way to control Brian's excessively unruly physical condition-everything had happened too suddenly. Voldemort was heading toward a death from which there was no return without looking back, but no one had expected the far end of the chain binding him to be fastened to Brian as well.
He tried once again to suppress that scorching ball of fire with his magical power, but no amount of it, however dense, could block a waterfall filling the air with spray. "Chet, can you still not control your rampaging magical power?"
"Still no luck, Albus. I can't use either ancient magic or modern magic now. At this rate, I might catch fire any second and then explode like an enormous lit firework-wait,