A mere briefing had not adequately prepared Agent Hill for Dumbledore's entrance. It wasn't explosive, colorful, loud, or dramatic - in fact there wasn't any sort of warning at all aside from a gentle pop (and it was unsettling just how adequately that benign little noise seemed to sum up the physics of what had just occurred). Mostly, she found the lack of fanfare odd. And from that moment of oddness, her brain began sorting out all the ways his skill could be used to do a variety of things: information, espionage, murder, categorized neatly by importance and risk. The instinctive calculations of an intelligence agency's triage.
Instinctively, too, she knew better than to think he would blindly follow any sort of orders, no matter how useful he might be. She had the research, though she wasn't sure how much of it applied to this Dumbledore - this younger, less-experienced Dumbledore who looked like someone who'd only seen a... could someone actually think the word Muggle with a straight face?... from a distance.
After a heartbeat, her jaw eased, harsh angles becoming imperceptibly softer, a hint of something smile-like mitigating severity. She stretched out a hand.
"Professor." She refused to say I've read about your work with that insincere sort of casualness reserved for visiting science consultants, but said merely - "I understand you're a very talented -" Don't say wizard. Don't you dare. "Wizard." If it is possible to swallow and enunciate simultaneously, Agent Hill had done just that.