Dumbledore's eyes swept the room and only then did he notice it: Fawkes, who had merely looked a bit aged before, now resembled a half-plucked turkey, feathers missing in clumps as if a rebirth were imminent. On the other side, the usually somnolent Sorting Hat was uncharacteristically awake, wearing a rather… blissed-out expression.
He immediately sensed something had happened here while he was away, but this wasn't the time to press. He could consult the headmasters' portraits after Loren left.
Composing himself, Dumbledore turned his attention to Loren. Seeing Loren already seated, he flicked his wand; steam rose once more from the cooling teapot. Two cups poured themselves—one floated to Loren, the other to Dumbledore's hand.
"Sugar, Mr. Angus?"
He drew out a small jar.
"Thank you, Headmaster, but no." Loren waved quickly. He liked sweets well enough—and fizzy drinks—but sugar in tea was where he drew the line. Besides, this wasn't British black tea at all, but the green tea he'd asked Dobby to brew. Sweetened green tea, in his book, wasn't tea.
When Loren declined, Dumbledore calmly dropped five sugar cubes into his own cup and stirred.
Loren knew the Headmaster had a notorious sweet tooth, but watching him dump a lethal dose of sugar into green tea made his scalp prickle—like a Sichuanite watching someone dip hotpot into pure white sugar.
Dumbledore took a sip and his face twitched almost imperceptibly. Chinese green tea was clean, slightly bitter, slightly sweet; English black tea was robust and mellow, begging for sugar and milk. What was green tea with that much sugar? Loren didn't know, but from the Headmaster's micro-grimace, it wasn't good.
Setting the cup down without comment, Dumbledore donned his kindly smile and began.
"What did you see?"
"With my eyes," Loren answered "honestly," a cheeky counterpunch for the sugared green tea.
Dumbledore nearly choked. No one had ever answered him quite like that. After a cough or two, he rephrased:
"Did you have no fear, using such… methods?"
"Not really." Loren tilted his head, studying him with a curious look. "It was simply the quickest way to conserve magic while stopping them. A Banishing Charm, then Engorgio—done. My aim was to make the trolls lose mobility as fast as possible so they wouldn't hurt anyone."
"I don't mean the group outside Gryffindor's common room," Dumbledore said softly. "I mean the others around the castle. And that final Rennervate wasn't necessary."
"Oh. Those." Loren nodded. "There weren't any fragments handy for the Banishing to fling, and I couldn't damage the castle, so I simplified it—opened a slit at each troll's throat with a cutting curse, then used Rennervate so they'd be incapacitated quickly. That shouldn't violate any school rules, should it, Headmaster?"
He answered with disarming candor, even trying to imitate Ron's famously "clear and innocent" gaze. It didn't quite land—too much experience, or perhaps not enough.
The look made Dumbledore feel oddly tired. He knew Loren was clever—clever enough to understand subtext—yet here he was, pure sincerity incarnate.
Seeing those guileless eyes, Dumbledore answered plainly. As he finished speaking, Loren felt Hogwarts's aura ripple—the mechanism for awarding points was in motion. Testing the thread of authority he'd just gained, he realized he could do the same. He couldn't help the pleased expression that flickered across his face. So, he had point-awarding privileges now, too.
Catching that look, Dumbledore added a warning.
"Mr. Angus, you are still a student. You should follow your professors' directions, not rush off to handle dangers alone. That kind of bravado only puts you at risk."
Watching Loren's odd half-smile, Dumbledore realized he'd slipped into treating Loren like an ordinary student. From what he'd seen tonight, Loren possessed depths of power—perhaps exceeding Dumbledore's in raw force—though in spellcraft he still had room to grow. Constitution might be innate; knowledge had to be learned.
He adjusted his tack. "Very well, Mr. Angus. One question. Why did you go on to clear the other trolls? Your true reason."
He wanted Loren's attitude laid bare. Tom's cautionary tale weighed on him.
"I was angry," Loren said at once. "Professor Quirrell behaved shamefully—loosed trolls into the castle, and even stationed them at the stairs outside Gryffindor's common room. Obvious retaliation. That kind of petty spite disgusted me."
Dumbledore stared. "How do you know it was Professor Quirrell?"
Loren gave him a look that plainly asked how he didn't know. Dumbledore caught his own misstep and corrected:
"When did you first suspect Professor Quirrell?"
"The first class," Loren said. "Haven't you noticed I never ask him questions? That stench of rot, and the blackened aura around him…"
He answered everything without hesitation. The sword had reminded him to be cautious, but in the current state of this Harry Potter world he felt more than capable of walking it unchallenged—and so he spoke freely.
Besides, Hogwarts was a good place, and he had no interest in scheming against its professors or headmaster. Why bother? Better that everyone get along.
Loren's reply startled Dumbledore again. He'd assumed Loren's sharp mind had teased out clues from behavior. Instead, this was something else—closer to the intuitive perception of a certain upperclassman he'd known long ago, a student of astonishing power who later vanished. Had that student survived, perhaps Grindelwald and Tom would never have risen as they did.
He studied Loren carefully, fleetingly wondering if the boy might be a descendant—then dismissed it. He'd already looked into Loren's past: a true Muggle-born, with no wizarding blood in his line.
While Dumbledore thought, Loren didn't interrupt, quietly sipping tea and sampling the cakes. The house-elves had made them to his taste; it would be ungracious not to eat.
At length, Dumbledore came back to himself.
"Mr. Angus, I know your gifts exceed ordinary imagination. I've only seen such talent once before, when I was a student myself. I hope you'll learn restraint, as he did, and use your power well."
Loren instantly understood: Dumbledore was slotting him into the role of an ancient guardian of Hogwarts's legacy, urging him—between the lines—to emulate that senior's "virtue." Inwardly, Loren couldn't help snarking:
"Restraint? As in casting Avada Kedavra on every target with a pulse—mercifully, of course?"
Seeing Loren's odd expression, Dumbledore thought he was brushing off the advice and pressed on.
"I once had a student whose talent may not have matched yours, but he did not restrain himself. He abused his power and strayed down a dark path—"
At the mention of Voldemort, Loren's face grew stranger still. Was this really the time to bring him up? The number of Killing Curses Tom cast in his entire life likely didn't match what that "virtuous" senior could manage in a day.
The more peculiar Loren's expression became, the less sure Dumbledore felt that he understood the boy at all.
Meeting the Headmaster's puzzled gaze, Loren set down his cup.
"I'm a student here to learn. I care about magical knowledge. In life, I'll pull the occasional prank, but I'm not the least bit interested in Voldemort's path—least of all that pure-blood nonsense. It revolts me."
Dumbledore hadn't used Legilimency, but long experience told him the boy wasn't lying. There was a proud timbre to his words, too—as if lofty, and untempted.
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