Loren immediately looked up at the screen floating in midair.
He saw that not long after Harry collapsed, the black flames on the door gradually died away. When the fire went out, an old wizard in white robes pushed the door open and came in—the very same Dumbledore who had been following behind Harry.
But Dumbledore didn't step forward to check on Harry. He gazed in the direction Voldemort had fled and murmured to himself.
Just as Dumbledore spoke, a tiny black shadow darted out from behind the Mirror of Erised. Taking advantage of Dumbledore's moment of distraction, it slipped into Harry's pocket; the pouch that had already been magically expanded swelled larger still. The next second, that swollen pouch suddenly shrank again, as if something inside had vanished.
By then Dumbledore had come to his senses. Seeing the pocket abruptly smaller, a flicker of anger crossed his face—he hadn't expected anyone to dare steal the Philosopher's Stone right under his nose. The thief had chosen the moment well: striking while his attention was divided, and diving into Harry's very clothing so that, for Harry's safety, Dumbledore couldn't attack with full force.
Dumbledore knew perfectly well that shadow had to be an Animagus. At present there was only one student at Hogwarts with the Transfiguration skill to accomplish that. Thinking of what had happened earlier, he said, "Come out, Loren. I told you I wouldn't pursue your prank from fifteen minutes ago. If you want to study the Philosopher's Stone, you can ask me—you don't need cheap tricks like this."
Dumbledore's words left Peter in Harry's pocket—and Loren and Hermione watching outside the screen—momentarily wrong-footed; none of them had kept up with Dumbledore's train of thought.
When the thing in Harry's pocket still didn't respond, Dumbledore's tone cooled. "Come out, Loren. At this school, only you have the Animagus technique to pull off a transformation like that. But I must criticize you—this magic is far too dangerous. Even with your talent, you should complete it under Professor McGonagall's guidance, not in secret."
At that, a rat wriggled out of Harry's pocket and stood up on his chest.
Seeing the animal was a rat, Dumbledore's expression changed. Knowing Loren's temperament, his Animagus form ought to be a lion or some other predator—not a sewer rat. If Loren's Animagus truly were a rat, his pride would never let him show it off in front of Dumbledore.
With that in mind, Dumbledore leveled his wand at the rat and barked, "You're not Loren. Who are you?"
A short, stunted man unfolded where the rat had been.
"Peter," Dumbledore breathed, hardly believing it.
The small man spoke for the first time. "Oh! The great Professor Dumbledore—the greatest white wizard of the century—still remembers his obscure little student. I'm so lucky."
"Peter, it's good to see you alive," Dumbledore said evenly. "Everyone thought you were dead." He began to step closer, as if to get a better look at his former pupil.
"Stay there! Don't come closer!" Peter, catching the movement, grabbed the prone Harry with his free hand and backed off. With a flick of his wand, a gust of wind rose, scooped up Quirrell's ashes from the floor, and flung them toward Dumbledore.
Faced with a whirlwind laced with human ash, Dumbledore had to stop. The swirl of Quirrell's remains dispersed into nothing—Quirrell, officially scattered to the winds.
In the Room of Requirement, a smile tugged unbidden at Loren's lips, and he silently praised Peter. Loren had been planning to take control if Peter fell to Dumbledore, to "accidentally" scatter Quirrell's ashes himself. He hadn't expected Peter to handle the job on his own. A good lieutenant indeed—Loren had idly griped that Quirrell was the only professor who'd taught him and hadn't sent a Christmas present, and Peter had remembered it.
"Oh, dear Professor Dumbledore," Peter said, voice dripping with scorn for Dumbledore's past indulgences, "we're all clever men. You should have understood the moment you saw me here."
"All right, Peter," Dumbledore replied. "I didn't expect you to be so well hidden. Indulge an old man's curiosity—tell me what really happened back then."
Dumbledore spoke to divide Peter's attention—Peter was wary of him, and Dumbledore feared he'd harm Harry.
"Voldemort sent me," Peter said calmly.
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed; Peter had named the Dark Lord without flinching—and with a hint of disdain.
"Why?" Dumbledore asked. "Wasn't James your best friend? Why betray him—why give their whereabouts to Voldemort?"
Peter burst out laughing, edged with hysteria. When the laughter finally stopped, he said, agitated, "Best friend? No. I was their tagalong. Their victim. Back at Hogwarts, if I hadn't joined them, I'd have ended up like Snape.
"James, Black, and Lupin—the worst pests in the school. They took delight in bullying and breaking rules, and you did nothing."
"I—" Dumbledore began, but Peter barreled on.
"You covered for them, Professor. Lupin was a werewolf you personally admitted. If anything happened, your name would be dragged through the mud. As for Black and James—at a party they let slip that their families sat on the school's board of governors, and that during their years they'd be donating extra to Hogwarts."
Dumbledore fell silent. Peter's judgment was slanted, but the facts he cited were real.
Seeing the silence, Peter only grew more heated. "I thought that after graduation I could get free of them—but I couldn't. I was still their errand boy, ordered about—never a friend, not even as good as Lupin, the werewolf. So I thought: if I must be someone's lackey, why not choose the strongest? Then I'd serve one master, not all of them."
"Just for that," Dumbledore said wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose, "you sold James and Lily?"
"When that mutt Black came to me, I knew my chance had come," Peter said, excitement creeping into his voice. "I agreed without hesitation—and handed them to Voldemort. At the time, the Dark Lord's power was at its height. He offered me a fine price—more than enough to pay me back for years as their lackey. Otherwise how could I have outwitted that dog and sent him to Azkaban? To this day he still thinks he killed me!"
Then Peter's tone shifted to bitter disappointment. "I never imagined Voldemort would turn out to be a showpiece—a pretender. Beaten by an infant! Do you know how shocked I was? The Dark Lord feared by every witch and wizard in Britain, beaten by the child in my arms—what a bad joke. All my 'investment' down the drain. His followers hunted me for revenge. I had to fake my death and hide."
As he finished, Peter's hand snapped to Harry's throat and squeezed. Harry's face began to turn the dusky blue of oxygen hunger.
"Peter, stop—quickly!" Dumbledore cried. "You'll kill him!"
Dumbledore's words snapped Peter out of his fury; he let go, and Harry collapsed to the floor. The spell Dumbledore cast next did not strike Peter—it struck Harry. In the next heartbeat, Harry vanished.
Only then did Peter realize he'd been tricked. Dumbledore hadn't been aiming to attack him at all—he'd been grabbing Harry.
With Harry safely removed, Dumbledore no longer held back. He leveled his wand at Peter and said, voice like iron, "Hand over the Philosopher's Stone—or I'll take it from your corpse."
"Try it, Professor," Peter said. "See if you can kill me—and then search my corpse for the Stone."
A spell hurtled at him even as Dumbledore's next words rang out: "Let's see what you learned at Voldemort's knee."
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