One evening after the selection of the Goblet of Fire champions had ended.
Hogwarts, the Academic Affairs Office Deputy Director's office.
The place resembled a den piled high with a paranoid man's collection, every corner crammed with Sneakoscopes of uncertain purpose, detectors, and faintly humming metal contraptions.
Alastor Moody sat at the center of this chaos.
He was marking a practical report on dealing with Quintapeds, the quill looking especially slender in his rough hand.
Suddenly.
His writing hand jerked violently.
The quill slipped from his grasp, leaving a glaring streak of ink across the parchment.
His left forearm.
The site of the Dark Mark.
A searing pain exploded without warning from deep beneath his skin.
It was not the burning of flames.
It felt more like a red-hot iron spike had been driven into his bones, then twisted frantically through his flesh.
He clamped a hand over his arm, his clenched teeth grinding audibly.
The previously quiet detectors in the office seemed to sense the violently fluctuating dark magic inside him and began spinning and shrilling uneasily, making faint, irritating noises.
The Electric-Blue Magical Eye spun wildly out of control in its socket, his vision splitting into countless distorted fragments.
He knew what this was.
His master.
His master was summoning him.
The blood rapidly drained from Moody's face, leaving it as pale as parchment.
Yet a sickly, fanatical flame kindled in his eyes.
He felt both fear and bitterness.
The plan had gone off course.
He had ruined a perfect plan to deliver Harry Potter to his master with his own hands.
His state of mind soon changed.
There was only the shuddering thrill of being chosen, of being about to stand before a god.
He quickly rose, grabbed the heavy cloak, and wrapped it tightly around himself.