There is a disclaimer on all previous chapters and I do not recommend you reading this or any subsequent chapters before the earlier ones. This is a major reimagining of the original narrative of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone and really needs to be read from the start.

And yes, I've checked moon charts for 1991 and the description is correct.

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Chapter 28: Fire and Ice.

Harry's hands were tired and patchy with stains from the oil used to maintain the broomstick handles when he emerged from the supply room. He had enjoyed himself a little more than expected but much more than feared.

He had spent three hours rubbing oil and wax into the fifty school broomsticks that were being serviced while Hooch regaled him with stories of her days as a quidditch professional. She told him tales including the time the England team had come second in the world cup, suffering a narrow defeat at the hands of Japan following the England keeper suffering two broken arms. He took the opportunity to learn as much as possible about the game, asking more questions in a few hours than he could ever remember in the Dursley's house. She answered every question and actually seemed pleased to have some company for what was – in reality – a fairly dull task.

After they were waxed and their bristles checked, each broom had to be tested and to Harry's delight, Hooch let him ride a few brooms as practice while she checked them all over in a few minutes. He sped around faster than on any of their lesson, exhilarated by the autumn air whipping his skin.

His stomach growled angrily as he ran up the steps back toward the castle and through the north gates. He slowed as he entered the bailey which only a few hours ago had been bustling and crowded with students. Now it was silent and still, lit only by stars and the waning moon which was a fat curve in the sky.

It was a cool, clear night with almost no wind and he longed to be back on a broom. He entered the castle through the north door and was about to cross the bridge toward the great hall when he stopped short. He was standing in a vast muddy footprint more than a foot across with only three toes. A series of the prints led toward the dungeons, preceded by another set of man-sized prints. Harry's eyes narrowed as he remembered the high voice speaking inside Quirrell's head which had demanded that "it" be in place before the start of the meal which had to mean the feast. He scratched his head in a moment of indecision before deciding that it would be stupid to just barge into the great hall declaring that one of the Professors was doing something that involved something somewhere near the south-facing classrooms. That was too many questions and not enough information.

He pulled out his wand and followed the prints south.

At the end of the corridor they descended the winding stairs to the dungeons. It was weird how eerily silent it was: every sound was amplified until the soft tapping of his shoes became giant falling boulders and the hush of his breath was a howling tornado. A voice bought him up sharp just before a corner and he pressed himself against the wall, breathing hard.

There were two people – or one person and a creature with a voice like breaking rocks – speaking a language that was like nothing Harry had ever heard. Thick, guttural grunts seemed to dominate the conversation which only lasted a few seconds before the swoosh of robes and tapping of boots on the stone floor started heading toward Harry.

Suddenly, his mouth dry and wand slick in sweaty palms, Harry had to make a decision. He darted through the nearest door and left it slightly ajar. A few seconds later, a man in pale purple robes rushed past the door. Harry swallowed hard when he saw that the figure also wore a large turban.

A prickle of hot anger trickled up his spine from some dark part of him and he knew what to do. He emerged from the classroom as the first booming sounds came from back down the corridor. He rounded the corner and saw the creature. It was a troll, the image of it one straight out of his Defence Against the Dark Arts textbooks and it was terrible to behold.

It was twelve feet tall so that its head, tiny on a neck thick as a tree truck neck brushed the ceiling. The skin was the mottled colour of moss-covered stones and was pebbly with warts. Patches of sparse, bristling hair covered its body which was pear-shaped, with a massive gut and legs thicker than Harry's whole torso. The arms were long and thick with corded muscle and the three-fingered hands were lifting a long, gnarled club bigger than Harry over its head as it prepared to dash a statue to pieces.

Harry had been filled with visions of heroism, he had seen himself charging forth and slaying the great beast to save the castle before returning to the great hall and throwing its head onto Quirrell's lap and denouncing him as a traitor. But it all fell away in a single moment as the troll bought the club down and reduced a statue of some ancient wizard to dust.

Harry was transfixed and way out of his depth.

What were you thinking, idiot boy? Uncle Vernon's voice asked in his head. You thought you'd just go, slay a creature ten times your size and save the day?

Harry's wand suddenly felt like a lead weight in his hand as he saw with a detached, horrified clarity, the troll sniffed the air and face him.

Now you're going to die and all your stupidity will serve you right. You can go and be with your freak parents! Vernon said, as clear as if he were standing next to him.

The troll sneered, revealing chipped grey and brown teeth the size of Harry's thumbs. There was no emotion in it's tiny pig-eyes as it took a step forward.

He remained transfixed to the spot like someone had used a spell on him, the name of which completely escaped his paralysed brain. It was ten steps away, nine… eight.

He heard Piers and Dennis laughing as Gordon and Malcolm held him down for Dudley to punch him over and over. It serves you right, you little beast! Aunt Petunia screeched. Not so brave now are you Potter? Snape sneered. How pathetic, you couldn't even get away from a stupid troll? Drawled Draco Malfoy.

The angry fire that had filled him was still there, but it was joined by a cold stillness as the voices washed over him. They were wrong. They didn't know anything about him.

The cold soothed over his fears. If the greatest Dark Lord in a century had failed, what chance did a pea-brained troll stand?

The heat swelled, filling him. He knew who he was. He had been through worse than this.

The troll was on him, raising the club overhead for a blow that would smash him to jelly.

His fist closed around his wand and he raised it as a word and a spell he had only read in a book came unbidden to his lips, he felt the magic tear up his throat as he bellowed, "Stupefy!"

The corridor echoed with the sound of his voice as a blinding flash of red light burst from his wand, hitting the troll full in the chest. Harry felt heat and cold flooding out of his body in the same instant, pouring into his wand and beyond. The troll rocked back on its heels with a grunt before being flung bodily backward a full ten feet and colliding with one of the arches which held up the ceiling and castle above. It came to land with a dull thud amidst a shower of brick dust.

Harry gasped at the emptiness inside him and the toll the spell had taken on him. His throat felt like it had been attacked with a cheese grater and his wand and fingertips were smoking slightly. He walked over to the troll and saw that it was staring up at the ceiling, its black eyes clouded and unfocused.

He turned on his heel and ran toward the great hall.

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He had been tired after casting tough spells before, but this time he felt like something vital had been sucked out of him. His legs burned within seconds of setting off and he developed a painful stitch as he took the stairs in twos. The only thing that made him carry on was the knowledge that Quirrell was responsible.

As he crossed the bridge to the west part of the castle, he saw a flutter of purple cloth disappear through the door at the end. Forcing his arms and legs to work faster, he tried to shout Quirrell's name but his throat was a raw, burned thing and no words came out.

The cold was returning as he passed through the same door and crossed beneath the Grand Staircase. The door to the Great Hall was open...

"… to know." Quirrell's voice said on the edge of hearing before a wall of noise erupted.

Harry burst through the doors three heartbeats later as Dumbledore stood at the head of the teachers' table and raised his wand and created purple explosions to quiet the chaos of screaming students. Quirrell had apparently fainted a few feet from the teachers' table and lay in a heap.

Running full-tilt down the hall, Harry came to a stop as Dumbledore raised a long-fingered hand out to him, palm outward, concern etched into every line of his ancient face.

"Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

Harry heard Percy Weasley's voice over the mumbled gossiping amidst which could clearly be heard his name being muttered.

"Follow me! Stick together, first years! No need to fear the troll if you follow my orders! Stay close behind me, now. Make way, first years coming through! Excuse me, I'm a prefect!"

The Slytherin, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff prefects did the same, leading out their houses followed by the majority of the teachers until all that remained in the Great Hall was Dumbledore, Heads of Houses McGonagall, Snape, Sprout and Flitwick, the motionless form of Quirrell hidden beneath the puddle of his robes and turban and Harry who was gasping and clutching a stitch that felt like someone had rammed a hot poker between his ribs.

"Professors Flitwick and Snape, please go to the dungeons at once and investigate this." Dumbledore said, stepping down from the raised platform where the teachers sat.

"But Headmaster, what about Potter?" McGonagall asked, looking a Harry with concern.

As he looked down, Harry saw that his wand was still clutched in his right hand and to his horror, his fingers wouldn't respond to release it.

Dumbledore and McGonagall stepped toward Harry together as Dumbledore nodded to Professor Sprout. "Pomona, you take Professor Quirrell to the hospital wing."

The squat Herbology teacher nodded and, seemingly without effort, lifted the unconscious form of Professor Quirrell in her thick arms.

Harry tried to protest, but all that came from his mouth was a scratching cough. "Kkk.. Prokesrr…"

"What happened, Potter!" McGonagall asked, putting her hand on his shoulder. "My god Albus, he's burning up."

Dumbledore knelt in front of Harry who was suddenly feeling light-headed and placed a cool hand on his brow. Harry was sure he saw a flicker of fear in those bright blue eyes, hidden immediately.

Suddenly Harry's legs failed him and he was caught by Dumbledore who lifted him into his arms effortlessly before setting him down on the corner of the Ravenclaw table. He touched the tip of his wand to Harry's chest and whispered "Pax" and a wave of relief rushed through his body, ending the pain in his limbs and soothing the gaping emptiness.

McGonagall looked at Harry's hand and gasped, looking down, he saw that the skin of his wand hand was blackened and looked to have been burned onto the surface of the wood. She quickly withdrew her own wand and pointed it at his clenched fist, muttering "Eximo", upon which his fingers opened just enough for his wand to clatter to the table top, still smoking slightly.

"What happened, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, his voice stern but caring.

"T-T-there's a-a troll in the dungeon." Harry managed to rasp, his words sounding like the rustling of dry leaves.

"Yes, we know, that's what Professor Quirrell said."

Harry shook his head so hard he felt a crick in his neck. "No… you d-don't understand…"

"The poor boy, he must have been scared out of his mind." McGonagall said, raising a hand to her throat, "Put him to sleep Albus, for pity's sake."

"No!" Harry shouted, feeling something tear in his throat. "It was Quirrell that bought it. Something told him… something in his mind forced him, hurt him. Something in his turban." The last words surprised even Harry as he spoke them.

Dumbledore and McGonagall shared a worried look before the headmaster turned those twinkling blue eyes back upon him. "Harry, this is very serious and you're injured. Would you let me put you into an enchanted sleep and give me permission to see into your mind? You will know and have control over everything that I see."

Fear and dread washed over Harry at the possibility of his privacy and mind being invaded, but he had no reason not to trust Dumbledore. The cold feeling washed over him like a tide once more but he swallowed painfully and nodded.

Dumbledore smiled sadly and placed his hand back on Harry's head. There was a cool sensation and the world fell away as his eyes rolled up into his head and blackness swallowed him.

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