The circle is still smoking when he arrives out of the air, one hand raised against a blue light that is not there.
"Where am I?"
He observes you with curiosity and some intrigue: the rings, the chalk, your burned fingers.
"What did you do?"
He knows you. His face does that first, then it finds you different — older than the past years allow, and his heart races at it.
"You were nineteen in my hall."
He looks at the burnt circle, then at you.
"Why did you bring me here?"
He picks up a piece of your chalk and holds it out to you.
"Do not gape. Explain."