Chapter 12.

The owls casscadded through the windows of The Great Hall, breeds of all colours and sizes overflowed like a waterfall of hooting and feathers into our breakfast. One face-planted into the porrage of the palest boy I'd ever seen. One fell gracefully into the orange juice.

Pidgeon's P.O.V.

"OH FUCK, FALLING, FALLING!

I FUCKED UP IFUCKEDUOP!"

Plop.

Third person'zzzzz P.O.V.

Thus ended breakfast.