The Halloween Feast continued, and as time passed, more and more students overcame their fear and began enjoying the food.
Hogwarts' atmosphere shifted entirely—it no longer resembled a school, but a den of cannibals.
At that moment, Professor Quirrell burst into the Great Hall, his turban askew and his face stricken with terror.
His sudden entrance interrupted the feast. Every student turned to stare at him.
Quirrell himself froze, horrified at what he saw: the four house tables piled high with severed limbs and organs, students chewing eagerly, some with "blood" at the corners of their mouths, clutching "organs," others biting into grisly "body parts."
The sight filled him with both confusion and dread. He hadn't eaten in the hall for some time, relying on meals in his office. To return now and find it transformed into a grotesque scene was overwhelming.
Watching him sway, close to fainting, Dumbledore spoke from the staff table.
"Professor Quirrell, at last. Come, we've kept a seat for you."
He gestured to an empty chair at his side.
Seeing Dumbledore's red-stained teeth, Quirrell shivered violently, nearly collapsing. But he remembered his plan and, in a trembling voice, cried out:
"A horde of trolls—in the dungeons—you should know!"
With that, he nearly fainted, but the eager looks of students startled him. Some were already rushing toward him, as though to catch him.
Fear stiffened his spine. Instead of collapsing, he stumbled toward the staff table, dodging the crowd of well-meaning students.
Dumbledore quickly restored order, firing sparks into the air until the hall quieted.
"Prefects, lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately. Professors, disperse the trolls."
This time was different from the original story. Quirrell had gone all out—not one troll, but nearly every troll from the Forbidden Forest had been driven into Hogwarts. With numbers so high, Dumbledore had no choice but to send out every capable professor to ensure safety.
Prefects hurried their houses away.
The Gryffindors, led back toward their tower, suddenly gagged at the foul stench ahead. Prefects halted at once—it meant trolls blocked the path.
They turned to find another route, but discovered more trolls near the stairway leading to the tower. And behind them, faint stench drifted closer, drawn by the students' noise.
Panic spread. Prefects quickly guided the students into a nearby empty classroom, barricading the door. They could fight one or two trolls—but not so many. The students' safety came first.
Loren's mood, lifted earlier by his successful prank feast, soured. Quirrell's sudden appearance had disrupted everything.
He had expected some mischief tonight—Quirrell would need a distraction to investigate the Stone. But he hadn't foreseen such a large-scale stunt.
Forced into his office by constant student pranks, Quirrell had grown desperate. Tonight was revenge, pure and simple.
And now, with trolls blocking their way, Loren felt fury ignite inside him. He had thought to let the plot run its course, but this? Being hemmed in by Quirrell's trolls felt like an insult.
Sensing his rising anger, Hermione tugged his hand, trying to calm him.
Loren patted her head with his free hand to reassure her, then released her and walked toward a nearby suit of armor.
He examined the full knight's armor—an antique, yet humming with dormant magic. It was part of the castle's defenses, simply not activated.
While prefects herded students into the classroom, Loren raised his wand and seized control of the armor, directing it toward the trolls.
The clanging advance drew every eye. Prefects froze, astonished—though Hogwarts' armors sometimes moved, they had never seen one charge into battle.
The armor reached the first troll and swung its greatsword, cleaving its head clean off. The other trolls, too dim to react sooner, finally roared and attacked, clubs smashing down.
Loren tried to maneuver the armor, but realized he couldn't. The suits obeyed only preset commands: attack, defend, guard, retreat. He couldn't override the core instructions in time.
Even fueled by his magic, the armor was soon overwhelmed. After wounding several trolls, it shattered into pieces across the floor.
The enraged trolls roared and charged toward where the armor had come from.
Prefects snapped back to their senses. Some sped up evacuating students; others, with older students, braced themselves to hold the line.
Percy spotted Loren and Hermione lingering at the back. Alarmed, he rushed over, dragging them toward the classroom.
But Loren shook him off with a flick of his arm. Ignoring Percy's cry, he strode straight to the front.
Startled, upper-years thought an attack had come from behind. As they turned to look, Loren dashed past them.
Seeing him take position, they reached to pull him back. They all knew the "Lion King" of Gryffindor—but this was no time for bravado.
Loren was faster. With a sweep of his wand, the shattered armor fragments rose like a storm of arrows and shot toward the charging trolls, embedding into their bodies.
"They're too tough. Those little shards won't matter," a prefect muttered behind him—cut off by Loren's next words.
"Engorgio! Engorgio! Engorgio!"
The shards buried in troll flesh swelled under the spells, expanding dozens, hundreds of times. The trolls split apart, torn to pieces.
Behind him, upper-years stared, horrified. Even after enduring the grotesque feast, several vomited. The rest fought to swallow back bile.
Students inside the classroom peeked out, saw their older peers retching, and, without even glimpsing the carnage outside, promptly threw up themselves.
The sickness spread like a chain reaction.
Loren, unfazed, cleaned the battlefield with a flick of his wand—including the stench of vomit.
The path cleared, he gestured for the prefects to lead the students on.
As for himself, he turned back. More trolls awaited.
The upper-years stepped aside as he passed.
He walked slowly through the opening they made, his slight frame carrying an aura of bloodlust. The older students held their breath, heads lowered, not daring to meet his eyes.
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