Laszlo nods without hesitation. He's smiling, and it's not hard to do, not like it sometimes is. "Yes," he confirms, "you would have done that anyway. Or you could have. If you wanted to. I didn't mind."

It reminds him of his mother. He remembers being very young as she tried to control his curls. And now he remembers this summer and she's doing the same thing, but with less success. He would wait, still and emotionless, as she sits nearby and tries to make sense of all the tangles. There's no way to win, but Laszlo doesn't dislike the attempts. He doesn't miss the potions that straightened every knot and curl, and doesn't mind the extra attention.