Facing Loren's question, Dumbledore adjusted his glasses and said gently:
"Mr. Angus, you should be in your dormitory right now, not here… doing these things."
His eyes flicked to the troll beside them, its neck still spurting blood.
"Alright, Headmaster," Loren replied casually. "I was just in a foul mood and went out looking for a little fun."
The blunt honesty left Dumbledore momentarily speechless. He polished his glasses as a tactical pause, then said:
"Mr. Angus, I believe we need to have a proper talk."
"No problem, Headmaster. Shall we do it here? Dobby, bring some tea and snacks."
As Loren spoke, he pulled items from his robe. Before Dumbledore could react, two chairs and a small table were already in place. Dobby appeared, set down teaware and plates of refreshments.
The scene left Dumbledore dumbfounded. He glanced at the troll's spraying neck wound, then back at the boy arranging tea. For once, the century-old wizard was caught off balance.
Noticing his look, Loren smacked his forehead in mock realization. He flicked his wand, and the troll vanished entirely, along with every trace of blood in the air.
Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. The troll hadn't died, and trolls resisted magic well. Yet Loren's Vanishing Spell had erased it completely, scent and all. His magical power wasn't merely strong—it rivaled, perhaps exceeded, Dumbledore's own.
To Dumbledore, the message was clear: Loren was demonstrating, forcing him to reassess.
"Mr. Angus," Dumbledore said finally, "this isn't the right place. My office has some excellent sweets—I think you'd enjoy them. The password is 'Iced Lemonade.' You know where to find it. Go ahead and wait for me there. I'll join you after seeing to these trolls—Minerva is already waiting, and if I'm late, she'll scold me again."
He even winked, then turned to Dobby.
"No need to waste the tea and snacks. Take them straight to my office."
With that, Dumbledore departed.
Loren sighed, packed his conjured furniture away, and told Dobby:
"Take me along, then."
"As you command, young master."
Dobby bowed and, balancing the tray, whisked Loren directly to the gargoyle-guarded entrance of the Headmaster's Office. Loren would need to speak the password to enter.
…
Meanwhile, Dumbledore.
Once he felt Loren whisked away by elf-magic, he summoned his Patronus to call the professors, then strolled toward the Great Hall, dispelling fountains of blood as he went.
By the time he arrived, the professors were waiting.
Minerva McGonagall stepped forward, unable to hold back:
"Albus, what in Merlin's name happened? Why were the trolls in such dreadful states—"
Dumbledore silenced her with a glance, then said:
"The trolls are dealt with. Their bodies, however, need clearing. The portraits will give you directions. Help poor Filch with the work. The four Heads of House stay—I need a word with you."
The other staff departed. Only after the doors shut did Minerva speak again.
"What happened? Why were the trolls left like that?"
Dumbledore didn't answer. He seated himself at the staff table, motioned for the four Heads to sit. Only then did he speak:
"What kind of wizard do you believe Loren Angus is?"
The question froze them. Minerva and Snape, most of all, understood its weight. The massacred trolls—they had been Loren's work.
Sprout gasped, hand over her mouth.
"Impossible. He loves plants too much. He spends every spare moment after class asking me about herbs."
"It's very possible," Snape cut in coldly. "Given his nature, nothing he does would surprise me."
Images flitted through Snape's mind—Loren cooking with potion ingredients during class, turning Harry into a girl, even that grotesque head at the feast resembling Lily. Yes. Nothing was beneath him.
"I examined the wounds," Flitwick added. "They resembled a Cutting Curse but resisted healing. Coupled with Rennervate forcing the blood to gush endlessly—it was torture. Cruel beyond belief. Yet… ingenious. A spell I've never seen. Likely of Loren Angus's own invention."
The brilliance left even him shaken.
Snape seethed—yet even he couldn't deny Loren's talent. Not when his own counter-curses failed.
"Could it really be him?" Minerva murmured. "He's so diligent, so eager, always pushing Transfiguration forward. I cannot imagine such cruelty in him."
Dumbledore massaged the bridge of his nose, then spoke quietly:
"He has done nothing punishable. I only want your views. What kind of wizard is Loren Angus, in your eyes?"
Snape answered first, voice tight with loathing:
"A brat with a taste for mischief. Brilliant in Potions, yes—but forever provoking outrage, just beyond reach of consequence."
The others startled at the venom in his tone. To make even Severus Snape break composure—that said much.
Sprout countered quickly:
"He is kind. He even told me a story—an Eastern legend of a healer who tasted every herb to learn their properties. That was his inspiration. Such a boy cannot be wicked."
Snape thought bitterly of Loren cooking herbs into meals mid-class, but said nothing.
Flitwick rose, animated.
"Loren Angus has the strongest magic I've ever seen. Stronger than Voldemort, perhaps. His insights enrich my own research. He doesn't feel like a student—more like a colleague. He belongs in Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor. The Hat must have erred."
Finally, all eyes turned to Minerva, whose opinion mattered most. Loren was her lion, her responsibility.
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