After November began, the weather turned bitterly cold. The mountains around the school were gray, their brows capped with snow; the Black Lake was like quenched steel—cold and hard.
The change in weather did nothing to slow Loren's research fervor. Lately he'd poured almost all his spare time into developing the magic-side intelligent assistant, and still carved out hours to read through the stacks of books Dumbledore sent over—he scarcely had a free moment.
Until, one Friday night, he heard from Harry that tomorrow would be their first-ever Quidditch match: Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
For a second Loren just blinked, wearing the blank look of someone who'd suddenly remembered something important. Then it hit him—he'd actually joined the Quidditch team. He'd only shown up for one practice, then never gone back. With everything else on his plate, he'd flat-out forgotten.
Seeing Loren's expression, Harry hurried to explain. Oliver Wood had been treating Loren like a secret weapon and insisted on strict confidentiality. To sell the ruse, Wood pushed Harry—the Seeker—into the spotlight to draw other teams' attention. The pressure on Harry these days had been immense. Some told him he'd do great; others joked they'd run beneath him with mattresses to keep him from breaking his neck.
Even so, Harry wasn't truly panicking. The source of his calm was Loren. As long as Loren took the field, there wouldn't be a match they couldn't win.
Loren caught the nerves anyway and said, "Don't worry, Harry. Leave it to me tomorrow—we'll win." With that promise, Harry could finally relax and get ready for sleep. Loren turned in on time as well, planning to ask George and Fred in the morning about the match logistics; from the look of it, Harry didn't actually know the specifics either.
The next morning was bright and cold. The Great Hall was thick with the smell of breakfast, and everyone was buzzing, eager for a brilliant match. Loren had already finished eating, but didn't leave as usual. He and Hermione sat together, watching Neville and Ron try to coax food into Harry.
Just as Neville grabbed Harry and Ron prepared to force a bite, a pair of voices piped up behind them.
"Look who it is—am I seeing things, George?"
"Not at all, Fred, I see him too. Gryffindor's Lion King himself, right there at our table."
"Oh, I'm blessed—fancy running into His Majesty the Lion King. George, tell me I'm not dreaming."
"Merlin must have heard my prayers and delivered him to me."
Loren hadn't intended to react to their routine, but the more ridiculous it got, the more he felt compelled to cut them off. "All right, you two, that's enough. Eat first; we'll talk after."
Taking the hint, George and Fred promptly flanked him, hemming him in on both sides. Hermione caught the signal that they had business, exchanged a glance with Loren, and rose to give them space.
Loren didn't mind the twins' maneuvering; he'd dumped work on them and then vanished into research. Outside of Hermione and his dorm-mates, almost no one could find him in free periods, and more than once he'd skipped both lunch and dinner in the hall, having the house-elves bring meals straight to him. The twins, seeing how busy he was, hadn't wanted to interrupt—but today was a match day, and they'd finally caught a rare window.
As for the match—because it was Slytherin, Wood insisted Loren play. Slytherin's style wasn't exactly clean, and Loren was just the person to handle that.
Forks working, the twins reported as they ate. "We've recalled every ring from the first batch," George said. "The new Beauty Rings are basically in the hands of every Gryffindor girl."
"Not just the girls," Fred added. "Among the boys, pretty much everyone from third year up bought one. We were going to gift Hermione one, too."
Loren wasn't surprised. Girls liked to look nice; boys usually started caring around fifteen or sixteen, when their hearts began to wake. As for why Hermione wouldn't accept a ring from the twins—he knew. With her alchemical spectacles, she had magical sight similar to his and knew the Beauty Ring did nothing for Loren. And thanks to her body-tempering, well… she hardly needed the help anyway.
"So—what's the plan?" he asked when they'd finished their report.
They set down their utensils and just stared at him, wounded, like he'd wronged them somehow. Loren realized he'd asked the wrong question and corrected himself. "About the shop, I mean."
At that, both faces lit up. Opening a shop in Diagon Alley had always been their dream, and now reality was close enough to touch. George passed over a pouch. Loren peeked inside and found more money than he'd expected.
Noting his surprise, Fred lifted his chin proudly. "We didn't just sell in Hogwarts. We pushed into Hogsmeade too. Some customers bought in lots of dozens."
Loren only nodded. "Are you ready to open? How's your Beauty Ring inventory? Do we have the new exterior design locked? And we can't sell just Beauty Rings—what else have you lined up?"
That string of questions wiped the smiles off both faces. Many of the prank items from the "original timeline" hadn't been invented yet; asking them to copy Zonko's line would be beneath them—their goal was to surpass it and become Hogwarts' top prank suppliers.
"I'll handle the first round of ring aesthetics," Loren said, throwing them a lifeline. "Stock and new product development are on you two. That shouldn't be too hard, should it?"
It was exactly the rescue they needed. With the machine, inventory wasn't an issue, and they already had ideas for new items; once they had passable prototypes, mass production could follow. As for looks—this time the rings were meant to sell like luxury goods. Loren planned to "reference" the successes of Muggle jewelry: come Christmas break, he'd visit counters and copy freely.
"Where do we meet later?" George asked.
"Plenty of time," Fred answered around a mouthful. "Kickoff's at eleven. If we're in the locker room an hour early, we're golden."
"No worries," George told Loren. "From how you performed in practice, you're going to steal the show today." It was Loren's first match, after all—understandable to be nervous. Harry was so tense he could barely eat.
"Oh—Wood told me to warn you," Fred said, nearly forgetting. "Take it easy out there, and, uh, please don't actually hit people."
"His exact words were," George chimed in, "'If Loren's going to get himself sent to Azkaban over Quidditch, it had better be after we've won the Cup.'"
Loren heard the faint grievance in George's tone—Wood had rated Fred higher and made George the reserve. "Relax," Loren said. "You'll get playing time today."
George's eyes lit up immediately. Loren's taste for "stirring the pot" was no less than the twins'. Now George was already imagining what trick Loren would use to guarantee victory—and slip him into the game.
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