Hogwarts: From Little Wizard to White Lord

The first-floor corridor emptied quickly as students were ushered away.

Only the soft orange glow of the pumpkin lanterns from the Great Hall cast a touch of warmth into the darkness. The rest of the passage was steeped in silence and shadow.

Then, a strange sound echoed through the corridor.

"De de de de…"

A moment later, Peter's figure shimmered into view, the Disillusionment Charm sliding off like water. He glanced around with an exasperated look. "Why are you shaking like that?"

From somewhere close by, Ron's nasal, trembling voice whined through the invisibility spell, "I'm scared… didn't you hear? It's a troll!"

"Thank you for the reminder, Ronald, but I'm the one who told you about it in the first place. Didn't I say I'd protect you? I even cast a Disillusionment Charm on you."

As he spoke, Peter's gaze drifted toward the Great Hall.

The flickering pumpkin light spilled into the corridor, casting shifting shadows across his eyes, making them alternately bright and dark.

He hadn't meant to change anything on purpose.

But Peter knew his very presence had already disturbed the flow of Harry's fate.

Hogwarts was no longer following the exact course of the stories he remembered reading. Some events were easy to alter, while others seemed fixed in stone.

For instance Voldemort's desire to steal the Philosopher's Stone.

As long as the Stone remained hidden within Hogwarts, and as long as Voldemort still needed it, the events of Halloween night were almost certain to unfold.

Halloween was the perfect night for trouble. All the students would be gathered together in one place, making them easier to manage. The professors, feeling confident in that arrangement, would be quick to leave en masse to deal with any urgent crisis.

And Quirrell Peter still preferred to think of him as "the turbaned man" would never let such an opportunity slip away.

Sure enough, everything had gone exactly as Peter predicted. The troll had been smuggled into Hogwarts by Quirrell.

Now the question was… would Quirrell dare to head for the fourth floor?

Peter waited.

At last, a shadowy figure slipped quietly out of the Great Hall. It was Quirrell, who had only minutes earlier pretended to faint dead away his large, lopsided turban was unmistakable.

The man looked about furtively, making sure the professors had gone, before hurrying toward the staircase.

Peter let out a slow breath. Part of him wanted to confirm where Quirrell was going if there was even a small chance to get closer to the Philosopher's Stone, he wanted to know.

And without any unicorn blood… what state was the turbaned man really in now?

As Quirrell's form vanished up the staircase, Peter turned to say something to Ron

But Ron's voice came first, quavering with dread.

"How exactly are you going to protect me… from that?"

Peter spun on his heel.

A hulking figure loomed at the far end of the corridor, easily twelve feet tall. Its hide was thick and gray, like weathered stone, and in one massive hand it clutched a rough wooden club.

The thing's body was like a moving boulder, immense and menacing. The small, lumpy head atop its shoulders might have looked ridiculous under other circumstances

But the sheer size and oppressive presence of the creature left no room for laughter.

Mom… I might really be dying…

Ron was nearly in tears. He knew from experience that whenever Peter smiled like that, it never meant anything good. He never should have agreed to Peter's proposal earlier, not even on a whim.

The only small comfort was that he'd already said his "last words" to Harry over lunch.

"…Just my luck," he muttered miserably.

The sound of teeth chattering grew louder in the air beside him, and it was enough to draw the troll's attention. Peter let out a resigned sigh.

"Honestly, Ronald, you really should stop calling me 'brother' from now on."

He slowly drew his wand. The troll had already fixed its beady eyes on him, breathing heavily, and began striding forward.

Calling it a walk didn't quite do it justice with its massive frame and enormous stride, it closed the distance in what felt like seconds.

The huge wooden club was raised high overhead.

Ron's scream caught in his throat.

Then he saw Peter lift his wand. His expression usually the one Ron dreaded held no trace of hesitation or fear.

"Reducto!"

Bang!

The massive club came crashing down, but before it could strike, Peter's curse shattered it into splinters. He followed instantly with two more spells in rapid succession.

"Reducto!"

"Reducto!"

Blazing bolts of magic ripped through the gloom like jagged flashes of lightning.

They struck the troll full force, kicking up a cloud of dust and debris. The blast sent a gust of air down the corridor, making the nearby torchlight flicker wildly.

The dim-witted creature finally reacted, opening its huge mouth to bellow.

But before the roar could escape, Ron heard Peter shout another incantation:

"Confringo!"

A surge of unseen power erupted. For an instant, the air turned unnaturally cold.

The next moment

The troll's teeth and thick, lolling tongue exploded in a spray of gore.

As the mangled flesh burst apart, another identical curse followed, striking the creature before it could recover. Its fragile jawbones gave way with a sickening crack.

Puff!

With a muffled, wet sound, the troll's upper jaw and most of its head detached entirely.

A foul stench filled the air as dark blood poured down in torrents.

Boom!

The severed head hit the stone floor and rolled with a heavy thud.

The troll's small, muddled eyes blinked a few times before seeming to comprehend its fate. Its pupils went wide, and the last spark of life faded away.

Gulp!

Ron's throat bobbed, and he instinctively clamped his knees together.

In the span of just a few seconds, the violent swing from terror to relief had left his mind utterly blank.

For Peter, dispatching a mountain troll wasn't difficult.

The creature had no real strengths beyond its thick hide, which could endure more punishment than most.

If it hadn't been necessary to finish the fight quickly and as quietly as possible, Peter could have found plenty of ways to toy with it.

He gave his wand a flick, lifting the Disillusionment Charm from Ron. The moment the spell wore off, Ron collapsed onto the floor with a heavy thud.

Peter looked him over and asked flatly, "Did you wet yourself?"

Ron's pride flared, and though his face turned scarlet, he managed to blurt out, "No no!" while trying to puff out his chest.

Peter didn't bother arguing. Instead, he plucked a single hair from Ron's head and murmured a quiet incantation. The hair ignited instantly.

He pressed the smoldering ash lightly to Ron's neck and said, "This charm will last for an hour. Go stand guard at the entrance to the dungeons. If the professors come out, whisper my name I'll know."

Ron's chest, which had been puffed up in defiance, sank again. He stared at Peter with wide eyes. "Where are you going?"

Peter ignored the question. Amid Ron's protests, he tugged out another hair, set it aflame, and tapped the warm ash to his own throat.

"If the professors don't come out, but you hear me call your name, you're to go straight to Dumbledore. Understand?"

Ron realized there was no arguing. He nodded reluctantly.

With the arrangements made, Peter slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and started up the stairs in the same direction Quirrell had taken.

Truthfully, leaving Ron in position was just a precaution Peter didn't expect him to be of much use.

The real reason he dared to trail Quirrell… was that Voldemort's weapon was sitting in his pocket.

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