"Merlin, don't even mention that blasted article," Tate had given up standing over the Sorting Hat and retired to his seat, only to discover that the conversation was nearly as unpleasant as the dim glass of mead sitting by his tarnished plate. The normally honey brown liquid was grayish, and he banished the whole thing back to the kitchen. He'd rather be thirsty than see good mead ruined. Ugh.

Tate eyed the students with distraction before turning back to the table. "I thought about demanding a retraction after the tripe they published, but they don't seem particularly concerned with the truth. Let's pretend the whole thing doesn't exist."