Loren prepared to leave the Gryffindor group and vent his anger on other trolls. He walked to the back of the line, and still no one dared to stop him.
The oppressive aura he carried, mixed with the lingering smell of blood, made even the prefects shrink away. With the strength he had just displayed, many suspected even some professors couldn't match him.
He didn't intend to take Hermione along. He told her to wait in the common room—this wasn't something she should see.
Seeing the resolve in his eyes, Hermione whispered in his ear, "Be careful," then quickly kissed his cheek before running off, face burning red.
A group of younger students, just emerging from the classroom, saw everything. Their teasing cries filled the corridor.
Hermione stopped, hands on hips, glaring furiously at them. Instead of silencing them, it only made the laughter louder, breaking the tension that had weighed on the group. Flustered, Hermione turned even redder and rushed past, vanishing up the stairs.
The noise died down only after she disappeared.
Then, from the crowd, came a voice:
"Your Majesty, Lion King—do you have further orders?"
Everyone turned. George and Fred bowed deeply before Loren.
Loren gave them a faint, unreadable smile. The hall fell silent. His presence weighed heavier than any prefect's.
He waved a hand, dismissing the prefects to lead the others back, then turned and left to hunt trolls.
As his back disappeared into the darkness, someone shouted:
"Long live the Lion King!"
The cry spread. Soon the entire corridor rang with the chant, even the older students joining in.
But reason broke through: "Get back to the common room! If more trolls come, what then?"
The cheering stopped, and under prefects' guidance, the Gryffindors hurried away.
…
Sometimes thoughts loop endlessly, feeding anger.
That was Loren now.
"I let Quirrell live because he was useful. I never even moved against him. And now he dares spit in my face."
To Loren, Quirrell's clown act was supposed to be entertainment. But Quirrell had taken it too far. There'd be no more games with such a petty man.
His anger grew as he walked. Why not simply kill Quirrell? With his own power, he didn't need him to reach the Stone. He could take it himself—using Peter Pettigrew's form if necessary—and even clash with Dumbledore, to test the White Wizard's strength.
Another thought struck him. Why should he follow the story at all? Yes, he had loved Harry Potter. Yes, he wanted to see the "real" plot unfold.
But with his strength, he could control the story, not be shackled by it. If someone displeased him, he'd erase them. Why endure? He could start by testing Dumbledore himself.
Lost in thought, he returned to the place where trolls had blocked the path earlier. The stench broke his reverie.
Five trolls stumbled aimlessly through the corridor, smacking each other's clubs like children at play.
When they spotted him, they charged.
Loren narrowed his eyes. With a flick of his wand, a swamp appeared under their feet.
Their legs sank deep, and momentum carried their huge bodies crashing forward, slamming into the ground with thunderous force.
Before they could rise, Loren slashed his wand. His personal variant of "Sectumsempra" struck, opening deep gashes across their throats. Blood poured freely as the trolls clutched at their wounds.
Snape's original curse had been born of hatred for James, and could only be healed with the counter-curse tied to his love for Lily.
Loren's variant was different. Its blade was forged from his own anger, and only satisfaction could reverse it. The trolls would bleed until death.
He frowned. The flow wasn't nearly enough. Blood was meant to run like a river.
With a grim smile, he cast "Rennervate" five times. The trolls revived just enough for their wounds to pour afresh.
Satisfied, he turned away.
A man of his word—tonight, there would be blood, no matter what.
…
But he soon realized something odd. He had scoured all three other house dorm entrances and found no trolls. Only Gryffindor had been targeted.
"Quirrell really holds a grudge," Loren thought bitterly. All four houses had mocked him, but Gryffindor had been singled out for the heaviest punishment.
He still craved more. But in Hogwarts, his detection spells were limited—unless he had marked something earlier, his range was short.
Then an idea came. Elf magic wasn't bound by the same rules.
"Dobby," he called.
The elf popped into view. Loren stopped him from bowing.
"Find me the trolls in the castle. Now."
Without a word, Dobby grabbed his hand and whisked him away with elf Apparition.
Through Dobby's senses, Loren swept the castle faster than any professor. Troll after troll fell, slain with brutal precision. Blood filled the halls.
At last, when the final beast collapsed, Loren's fury ebbed. Hogwarts truly ran red tonight.
He dismissed Dobby, then strolled back toward Gryffindor Tower, savoring the carnage.
…
"Mr. Angus. A moment, if you please."
The voice came from the shadows.
Loren turned. Dumbledore stood there, half-veiled by torchlight. His eyes gleamed, as though he had been waiting.
"What is it, Headmaster?" Loren asked calmly, no hint of guilt in his tone.
Dumbledore studied him intently, as if to strip away every layer. Tonight's actions had shattered every assumption he had held.
After sending the students away, he had relied on the headmaster's authority, using portraits, ghosts, and armors to track the trolls, dispatching professors accordingly.
Then reports came: a student, guided by an elf, was slaughtering trolls in grotesque fashion.
Dumbledore had gone himself. The scenes were exactly as described: trolls gasping on the floor, throats split open, blood spurting like fountains.
He tried to heal one, but found the wound infused with an unfamiliar energy. It reminded him of Snape's Sectumsempra.
He summoned Snape. One glance, and Snape confirmed it. Yet when he cast his counter-curse, nothing happened.
Sectumsempra's wounds should have obeyed him. That they didn't left him shaken.
And now the portraits whispered again: the boy was done, moving calmly back toward Gryffindor.
So Dumbledore had waited. And here Loren stood, before him.
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