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On the left, a glass case displayed things that had once been part of larger things: a dragonfly wing cast in resin, a thin slice of star-stone that showed a black stripe when turned, a spoon made from the core of an old wand, a bird skull so clean it looked like a drawing.

On the right, a sofa sat under a painting of a storm. The sofa had seen better days. It had also seen worse days. It had not broken. The painting made the room feel a degree cooler. The storm in it had been stitched with very small thread and a mind that had been annoyed for three months.

The man behind the table did not look up.

He held a book between both hands as if the book might try to run from his hands. The book was almost broken — its spine a tired thing, its corners rounded from the fingers of people who had not washed before reading. His hat made its own weather. It was tall enough that a careless lamp could have set it on fire; it was not on fire. His robes were the kind men wear when they have decided not to bother with buttons because they will only lose them. His beard started silver, then gave up and became white. There was a hookah mouthpiece in the corner of his mouth. It puffed once, twice, like a lazy kettle.

He raised one finger without looking. "Sit," he said, pointing his finger toward the sofa.

Master Hale sat in a straight wooden chair by the door. Master Venn leaned against a shelf that had learned how to carry men as well as books. John did what he was told. He sat at the end of the sofa nearest the door. Fizz floated to the top of the sofa's back like a housecat that refused to touch cloth with paws. He struck a pose: paw to brow, the other paw to his throat, chest heaving. The gag spell did not care about drama.

The old man turned a page. The page made a tired sound. He bent closer to the small print. His eyes narrowed to slits, which made his eyebrows go high, which made him look like a sad owl in a hat that had belonged to a more cheerful owl. He held the book closer still. Then he pushed it a hand-span away and squinted at it again. He seemed to be arguing with the letters about which of them were actually in the right order. He was reading something very important… something that will and might be connected to John's fate.

John watched him from his own corner of stillness and let his mind work without running. Whoever this man was, Masters Hale and Venn had brought John to him. That was not nothing. They did not bring boys who had failed to old men for crumbs. This was not a scolding. It did not feel like a trap. It felt like a test he had not learned the name of.

He tried to put the old man in a box in his head. Boxes help when roads fork. The first box said eccentric. The second said it was important. The third said dangerous like a clean blade is dangerous: not because it wants to cut, but because cutting is what it was made to do.

The hookah bubbled. The smoke rose in a thin, clear thread and became a small, pale fish when it reached the cold air by the window. The fish swam two inches and fell apart. Another thread turned into a circle inside a circle, then into a spiral as if it had changed its mind halfway through being born. John did not love smoke. He watched it anyway.

Fizz, who could not help being a show, grew very still the way cats grow still when they think no one is watching. He raised one fluffy paw with great care and made the tiny sign for question. Then he flattened both ears, pointed at his own muzzle, and made the old, old gesture with both paws: a zipper shutting. He pointed at Master Hale and Master Venn and spread both paws wide. Them. He pointed at John and patted both paws over his heart, big eyes saying, me. Then he climbed the air like a ladder until he hovered eye level with John and mimed writing in the air, which was Fizz code for let me talk, let me explain, I have eight jokes and three warnings and one song.

John gave him half a look that said not now. The other half said thank you.

He thought, without wanting to, of a movie from his first life — the one with the old headmaster with the too-kind smile and the young teacher with a name like a knife. This room felt like that room had felt when he had first seen it on a glowing screen: cluttered and careful at once. The man looked like he had once made a joke and had never been allowed to forget it.

"Dumbledore cosplaying Merlin after losing a bet," a stray thought said in John's head, in that other language he still carried like a folded paper in his pocket. He killed the thought. He had no time for jokes. He had room for one breath, then another.

Master Venn coughed into his fist. It sounded like chalk on slate.

Master Venn coughed into his fist. It sounded like chalk on slate. "Head mas…"

"Professor," Master Hale corrected, dry and polite at once.

The old man raised one finger again to mean wait.

Fizz spread his both fluffy paws in a huge, helpless shrug, spun a full slow circle in the air out of sheer frustration, then laid himself across the sofa back like a decorative stole and tried to look like he did not care about anything in the world, not even the fact that he could not speak. It was the first time for him. For the first he was unable to speak for so long.

The old man turned one more page. He nodded as if the small, broken book had finally agreed to tell him where the secrets were kept. He finally found what he was looking for. Then he closed it with care, as if the pages would become dust if he shut it too fast. He set it on top of three other books that did not want it there. The stack leaned. The hookah bubbled in his mouth. Then he puffed out some smoke from his nose and mouth. The globe clicked. The storm in the painting held its breath.

He lifted his eyes to John at last.

They were not cloudy eyes. They were not watery. They had the sharp and plain look of a man who had spent a lifetime seeing through stories to the table underneath.

"Forgive the delay," he said, voice warm gravel. "This copy is older than I am, and I am very old. I need to treat it with care."

He slipped the hookah stem from his mouth again and set it down on a plate that did not deserve that use. He steepled his fingers in front of his beard, then ruined the steeple by tapping two knuckles against each other because stillness had always been an argument he lost.

He looked past John to Master Hale and Master Venn and nodded, pleased. "I am glad you both came. And you brought the guest I asked for. The boy with void magic."

Master Venn tilted his head, curious. "He is raw. Still unpolished. We brought him to you like you asked."

"I am glad you did that. Polish is not the task of stone breakers," the old man said mildly. "It is the task of time."

Master Hale's mouth made the smallest smile, though her eyes stayed strict. "Then perhaps he is in the right room, professor."

He looked back at John and smiled in a way that did not show teeth and did not pretend friendship. It was a smile like a door cracked open or a hand-span to let good air in.

"Hello student candidate John," he said. "My name is Professor Snake. I wanted to meet with you for an important discussion."

Professor Snake made a tiny flick with two fingers, like shooing a fly. The clear band / gag spell snapped off from Fizz's mouth with a soft ping and turned into harmless mist.

Fizz exploded with relief. He shot three circles in the air and then hovered nose-to-nose with the old man. "Blessings upon your wrinkly wisdom, Hat Guy! Also—Snake? Do you hiss when you sign letters? Do you molt your beard? Important research." He zipped to the desk, peered at the hookah, and whispered, "Is that where you keep extra thoughts?" Then he pointed at the book towers. "This room looks like a goblin sneezing library. Ten out of ten. Goblins would like to live here."

"Fizz," John warned.

Fizz saluted. "Yes, yes — respectful mode engaged." He rotated slowly, speaking stage-soft. "Professor Snake, I am Lord Fizz, small but majestic, legally fluffy, sometimes on fire with my cuteness. My master is very calm. I am not. Together we average out." He leaned close and cupped a paw to the old man's ear. "Also, your hat is intimidating. Does it have a permit?" Snake's eyes got nervous on that comment. The room felt a degree warmer.

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