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Fizz hovered over the lectern in his tiny vest and oversized spectacles, then rapped the chopstick once like a gavel.
"Roll call," he announced. "Not of names. Of nerves. Raise your hand if you are certain you will be terrible at this."
A nervous wave of hands went up. Laughter loosened the room.
"Excellent," Fizz said. "Confidence without evidence is how barns burn down. We will collect evidence first."
He pointed his chopstick toward a cluster near the front. "League of Fizz, present."
A dozen first-years —his unofficial fan club— straightened with sacred solemnity. Several saluted. One boy almost fainted with pride and then recovered because he wanted to see what would happen next.
"You are brave and therefore volunteered," Fizz said pleasantly. "You, water boy with ink on your cheek. You, earth girl with the serious eyebrows. And you, the air lad who keeps tugging his sleeve because he is not sure it fits his arm."
"Up."
