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Professor Snake's eyes twinkled. Then, with a lazy sweep of his hand, he let the hat question slide off the table as if it were a crumb. "Mmm. Hats are dull things," he said, voice mild. "They keep the weather off. They sit there. They nap. Not worth the time."
His gaze, sharp behind the soft words, flicked to Fizz's bright face and lingered half a heartbeat. The old man filed something away — an old habit from a long life of watching. "The little one noticed. He saw the stitch no one else sees." Then he left the thought where it was.
"We are not here to talk about my hat," he went on, as the hookah made one polite bubble and fell quiet again. "We are here for John."
He tipped two fingers at Fizz without looking away from John. "And for you, small lord. You are very… impressive. Majestic. Handsome. Perfectly round in a way that no geometry text has yet captured. The fur glow is tasteful. The whiskers are a triumph. If I were a painter, I would weep."
