At this moment, Professor McGonagall had already sunk into her memories, scenes of every encounter with Loren Angus flashing through her mind. Only after a long pause did she finally speak:
"Mr. Loren Angus is a clever and helpful young wizard. Everyone who seeks his advice always receives a satisfying answer. He also possesses a unique personal charm, earning the admiration of many students in Gryffindor, who call him the 'Lion King of Gryffindor.'
Although some of his actions may seem reckless, that stems only from his lack of understanding of the wizarding world. And I must admit, I agree with part of what Professor Flitwick has said—Loren has extraordinary talent in Transfiguration. He does not care for fame, preferring to study quietly. The recent large-scale Transfiguration experiment was initiated by him, and it has already borne fruit."
Hearing her account, Dumbledore combined it with his own observations and began to form a new impression of Loren in his heart.
Remembering that Loren was still waiting in his office, Dumbledore rose and said loudly:
"Let us conclude our discussion of Mr. Angus for now. I do not intend to punish him. I only wished to understand him better. But it grows late—please go and calm your Houses' students. I will take my leave; there is a guest waiting for me in the Headmaster's Office."
He stood and left the hall.
The four Heads exchanged looks. They knew Loren Angus was now in the Headmaster's Office, but for the moment, their duty was to reassure their frightened students. Loren's matter would be left to Dumbledore.
…
Loren, meanwhile, had Dobby guide him through the entrance on the third floor, up the long staircase, until he finally reached the Headmaster's Office on the eighth floor.
After placing the tea and cakes on the desk, Dobby bowed to Loren and departed, leaving him alone outside the office.
In Loren's mind, Dumbledore's office was the most fascinating of all the professors' chambers at Hogwarts.
In his previous life, he had seen it many times in films and short clips. But now, standing here in person for the first time, he felt a flicker of excitement.
Peering inside, he carefully examined the office:
The desk, familiar from both books and films, with its slender legs, was cluttered with oddities. One silver instrument spun slowly, puffing tiny clouds of smoke.
Using his magical vision, Loren studied the objects. Some radiated magical energy, but many were Muggle creations. To his surprise, he even spotted a small phonograph.
On either side of the desk, tall bookshelves stretched upward, filled with books that shimmered with enticing magical light—Dumbledore's private collection.
Loren's fingers itched to take them down and read, but the protective enchantments glowing across the shelves convinced him to wait and borrow them properly later.
His gaze wandered next to the walls, hung with portraits of past Headmasters and Headmistresses. They snored softly in their frames, unaware of the visitor.
Finally, his eyes settled on the claw-footed table in the corner. Upon its shelf rested a battered, crumpled wizard's hat—the Sorting Hat.
Seeing it slumbering, Loren crept forward. His stealth training and aura suppression cloaked his movements; no one sensed him—except for the pair of eyes behind the door.
On a gilded perch stood a bedraggled old bird: Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix.
The year was 1991. Fawkes would undergo rebirth the following year, but already looked aged, feathers dull though not yet shedding.
Now his keen gaze fixed on Loren's stealthy approach toward the Sorting Hat. He made no sound, merely watching with curiosity. Few who entered this office ever dared mischief. This student, however, was clearly different.
Loren grabbed the Sorting Hat suddenly, flipped it upside down, and shoved his hand deep inside, nearly climbing halfway in as he groped for Godric Gryffindor's sword.
The Sorting Hat jolted awake, stunned by the intrusion, then realized what was happening. Its mouth split wide in a scream:
"Ahhh—!"
The shrill cry startled Loren, nearly toppling him headfirst into the hat. It also woke the portraits, who peered about in confusion.
Poor Fawkes suffered worst of all—the sudden shriek made him convulse, and half his dull feathers dropped like rain, leaving the phoenix looking like a plucked turkey.
Regaining balance, Loren clamped the hat shut and roared louder than it had:
"Be quiet!"
The force of it silenced the Sorting Hat and even froze the portraits' stares. Fawkes lost another handful of feathers, as if pushed into an early rebirth.
Loren released the hat and shoved his hand back inside, still searching. The enchanted space was vast, and he couldn't find the sword at once.
The Sorting Hat, recognizing him now, demanded:
"Boy, what are you doing?"
Loren paused, flipped the hat upright, and said sincerely:
"I'm looking for the thing that struck my head that day."
His tone was guileless, but resolute. As Gryffindor's Lion King, why shouldn't he see Gryffindor's sword?
The Hat faltered. "What are you talking about, what struck your hea—"
It stopped abruptly, memory returning. During Loren's Sorting, it had probed too deeply and accidentally let the sword fall onto his head before whisking it back. Too late—he had felt it.
Loren's eyes sharpened. "I knew you had something inside you. Let me see it."
He shoved himself halfway into the hat again, magical sight piercing the enchanted space.
At once he saw the sword, bound by a seal fused to the Hat itself. Only those judged worthy by the Sorting Hat could draw it forth.
Impressive, Loren thought. Gryffindor might have been a reckless man, but hiding the sword this way was sheer genius.
The Hat screamed again:
"There's nothing in here! Get out at once!"
But Loren had seen enough. He pulled back, flipped the Hat upright, and glared.
"I saw it. A sword inside you. It struck me on my first day. Don't try to lie."
The Hat quivered in shock. Loren's ability to perceive it meant he truly had Gryffindor's recognition. It recalled the vision it had glimpsed when delving Loren's soul—then, with a resigned groan, the sword tumbled free at last.
This time, with no head beneath to cushion it, the hilt clanged against the stone floor: *clatter.*
Every portrait craned forward. The legendary relic of Gryffindor, hidden for centuries, had just emerged.
The Sorting Hat, bereft of its charge, drooped limp in Loren's hands. He gently set it back on the table, then bent and picked up Godric Gryffindor's sword, studying it closely.
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