---
They turned into the dining hall and were swallowed by heat and chatter. Long tables ran like lanes in a field. Banners drifted in the draft. The air smelled of peppered stew, fresh bread, and the sincere terror of vegetables.
Everywhere, first-years reenacted the class with frantic hands, making tiny circles in the air like they could catch the warmth again. Upper-years tried to be bored about it and failed.
From a shadowed corner table, Ray Flame sat alone, a swaggering slouch that looked dented. His coat was good cloth and bad food choices. He hunched over a plate he wasn't eating.
Fizz tapped John's shoulder with one paw. "There. Mushroom Cheeks. We dine with him."
"Why," John asked, already suspecting the answer.
