Toil and Trouble Chapter 12 : A game of deceit - Part 1 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)
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October 28, 1993. The Black Lake
The lake was a mirror that evening.
Its surface caught every flicker of the dying sun, and the long shadows of the castle stretched across it like the fingers of some great, sleeping beast. Harry sat at the edge, knees drawn up, a stone resting loosely in his hand. He threw it. It hit the water with a hollow plop and sank without a single skip. The ripples spread out, slow and deliberate, and for a moment he found himself watching them fade until they disappeared entirely.
He had been sitting there for about half-an-hour. He'd come to the lake as soon as the school day was over, needing to be alone. Somewhere across the grounds, the shouts of older students at Quidditch practice floated faintly through the breeze. Normally, Harry would have watched. But today, his thoughts were a tangled mess, thick and heavy as the mud at the lake’s bottom.
He could still see the dream. No, the nightmare, in fragments, flashing like reflections on broken glass.
An old wizard’s shop. Dust-laden shelves and dim light that glowed sickly green. The voice he'd heard - thin, yet full of command. It had whispered, though Harry couldn’t understand what it said. This was followed by another voice, it was deeper, yet fearful and trembling. He hadn’t seen who the voices belonged to, but the sound had crawled up his spine like cold water. He’d watched as a man dishevelled and with a crooked smile had handed something over. Something that looked like a whole bunch of vials. Then a flash of pain had torn through his scar, burning like fire from the inside.
When he woke, his sheets were soaked in sweat and his pillow had fallen to the floor. Ron had shaken him awake, and Dean had rushed off to fetch Professor McGonagall. She had come in a hurry, dressed in her night robe her hair braided, instead of in its usual tight bun.
After a hasty check, McGonagall had sent for Dumbledore. And before Harry knew it, he was standing before the fireplace at Grimmauld Place, still in his pyjamas, wrapped in a blanket that Andromeda Tonks had thrust around his shoulders.
She had made him drink three potions in quick succession—one for the pain, one for the headache, and one, she said, “for courage.” Then Remus had asked him to tell them everything. Sirius had sat beside him, a hand on his shoulder, quiet but tense, while Harry recounted the dream from start to finish. Every minute detail he could remember. He’d seen them exchange that look again. The one adults gave each other when something was very wrong and they didn’t want you to know.
When they finally sent him back to Hogwarts, Sirius had smiled, an odd, strained sort of smile, and told him not to worry.
“Everything’s under control, Little Prongs. Don't you worry", he’d said.
Harry had wanted to believe him.
He wanted to believe that whatever strange darkness hovered at the edge of his mind was something Dumbledore, and Sirius and Remus could simply contain. But as the wind brushed his face and the castle towers glowed gold in the evening sun, he realised he didn’t feel reassured at all.
He felt alone.
Not the kind of alone one feels when no one’s around, but the kind that comes from knowing that everyone is around, and yet there’s something happening that no one will explain to you. He was thirteen, but sometimes it felt as if everyone else was years ahead—like there was a world of things only adults were allowed to know, and he was always on the outside of it.
Another stone slipped from his fingers and vanished into the water. He didn’t bother to watch it sink.
“Oi, there you are!”
Harry turned. Ron was jogging down the slope, his tie half-undone and his robes crooked as always. He had a faint smudge of ink on his cheek and a wide grin that looked only partly forced.
“I’ve been looking all over, mate.” Ron said, collapsing beside him with a huff. “What you sitting here for?”
Harry shrugged. “Just needed some air.”
Ron glanced at him sidelong. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”
Harry didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what to say. He considered telling Ron about the dream. But then decided against it, and simply shrugged.
Ron leaned back on his elbows, watching the sky fade from orange to blue. “Wood’s gone mad,” he said suddenly. “Made the Junior team run seven laps before practice today. Then he gave a speech about ‘honouring the Quaffle.’ What does that even mean?”
Harry blinked. “Honouring the Quaffle?”
“Exactly.” Ron smirked. “Fred says if Wood starts naming the Bludgers, he’s quitting.”
A laugh escaped Harry before he realised it. It felt strange, but good.
Ron looked pleased with himself, as though he’d just won a small victory. “See?” he said. “That’s better than moping by a lake.”
“I wasn’t moping.”
“You were absolutely moping,” Ron said, grinning. “Come on. There’s a practice match. Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff Juniors. You’ll like it. The Puffs just got a new Chaser".
Harry hesitated. “I don’t really..."
“Yeah you do,” Ron interrupted. “You’ll go mad sitting here alone, Harry. And I don't want my best mate turning into a poet or something.”
That earned another reluctant laugh. “Fine,” Harry said. “Let's go."
Ron clapped him on the shoulder.
They began walking back together, side by side, as the sky began fading into a pale orange hue. From the distance came the echo of laughter and the faint whistle of broomsticks cutting through air. For the first time all day, Harry felt the tightness in his chest loosen. Maybe Ron was right. Maybe a bit of noise and normality was what he needed.
Students had crowded the stands, cheering as crimson and yellow streaks blurred across the sky. Ron whooped when a Gryffindor Chaser scored, then turned to Harry with a grin that reached his eyes.
Harry smiled back. For a while, he forgot the dreams, the whispering voice, and the fire that had burned behind his scar.
The night deepened, and beneath the quiet skies of Hogwarts, the world felt steady again. If only for a moment.
Hermione had been in the library for over two hours, completely absorbed in her work. As was her daily routine, after the last class of the day, she went to her dorm room to change out of her school uniform. After grabbing a small snack from the Slytherin Tower kitchenette, she'd made her way to the library.
Three books lay open before her, quills scattered, parchment covered in precise notes.
One book on Runes was open to a chapter describing symbols for barriers and exits, and how the Runes could be "activated".
Another detailed intermediate Transfiguration techniques. She was attempting to understand the theoretical framework behind complex multi-step transformations. The third was on defensive charms, something she’d quietly begun studying after the attack from the four older Slytherins.
She was beginning to tire, but she felt a sharp satisfaction every time a difficult passage or unfamiliar rune finally made sense. Her quill moved in small, neat strokes :
Bindrune for movement
Subcategory : threshold magic
Parvati’s note : symbol resembles hook turned downwards
She was just about lost in her musings when she heard a soft voice.
"Hermione, dear", said Lydia Ellis, a kind and elderly witch, and the librarian on shift, "it's seven forty. The Great Hall will close in twenty minutes. Go have your dinner."
Hermione had lost track of time. She closed her books, stacked them carefully, and slung her satchel over her shoulder.
"Thanks Mrs Ellis!", she told the librarian as she walked out.
The corridor beyond the library was dim and quiet. Students hadn’t begun filing toward the Great Hall yet. Hermione headed toward the staircase, her steps soft against the stone floor.
That was when she noticed the cat.
A majestic Maine Coon stood directly in her path, yellow eyes glowing eerily in the torchlight. It didn’t move as she approached. Hermione slowed, then crouched slightly.
“Well, hello,” she spoke softly.
The cat tilted its head. Hermione extended a hand, slowly. The cat sniffed her fingertips, then began to purr. Loud, vibrating, unexpected. Hermione smiled as she stroked its head, her fingers brushing the soft fur.
A shadow lengthened across the floor.
Hermione looked up, just as an old man appeared around the corner.
He was tall, thin, and his robes were a dark brown. Not a teacher, but definitely a staff member. His face was severe and deeply lined, and his eyes small, sharp, calculating.
The cat immediately went to him and he picked her up. She was his cat.
The man regarded Hermione with a cold gaze, and she straightened instinctively, but she kept her voice polite.
“She’s adorable,” she said quietly.
The man didn’t smile. His voice was like gravel scraping stone.
“Her name,” he said, “is Mrs Norris.”
“She’s very sweet.”
The old man made a sound. Not quite agreement, not quite disapproval. Just a grunt.
Hermione hesitated, then ventured, "Do you work here Hogwarts, sir?"
"Yes", the old man answered, "I'm the Headmaster’s administrative assistant".
“Well… it was nice meeting you, Mr…?”
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if deciding something.
“Filch,” he said. “Argus Filch.”
She nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Filch."
His gaze lingered on her for a long moment.
Then, in a low, quiet voice, “So you’re the Slytherin Muggle-born.”
Hermione felt her stomach tighten — not in fear, but in that prickling anticipation she’d come to recognise whenever she was about to be insulted.
"Yes, Sir. Hermione Granger."
Filch’s expression didn’t twist into mockery or contempt. If anything, it softened grimly.
“Watch your back, girl” he said. “Or you won’t last long here.”
Hermione blinked. “Pardon?”
“This isn’t a threat,” Filch said, as if reading her mind. “Just advice. There are those in this castle, in your House, who wouldn’t want you lasting long at all.”
He then walked away without another word. The cat stared over his shoulder at Hermione until they vanished around the corner.
By the time Hermione entered the Great Hall, most of the students had finished eating. The Slytherin table was buzzing with chatter, but she slid silently into her usual seat at the edge, next to no one.
Filch’s words echoed in her mind.
Watch your back.
She spooned vegetables onto her plate automatically. Her thoughts slipped back to the morning, to how her skirt had been moments away from being shredded.
She could still feel the sting of fear from that second. The faint tug of magic she’d sensed behind her. The frantic rush as she cast the sticking charm to stop the damage from spreading. She had bolted to her dormitory, breathless, heart hammering.
This had made her late for first period, resulting in her losing five House points.
Whispers from other Slytherins followed. Mudblood this, liability that.
She’d later told Professor Snape about the hex, voice trembling with fury. But because she hadn’t seen who cast it, Snape had only folded his arms and said in that cool, dismissive tone, “Childish pranks are not worth reporting. And as a Slytherin, Miss Granger, you should be more aware of your surroundings.”
Her hands curled into fists on the table now.
She stared at her plate.
More aware of her surroundings? She was fourteen. How aware was she supposed to be? She shouldn't have to worry about such attacks at all.
And those four older Slytherins who had attacked her in the Common Hall, still glared whenever she walked past. Their resentment evident in every glance, clearly blaming her for their detention. She knew enough by now to understand that hatred didn’t fade here. It festered.
Filch wasn’t wrong. Not at all.
She looked around the hall, at the laughing groups, the bright conversations, the teasing, the noise she was never part of. She understood something very clearly. If she wanted to stay safe, if she wanted to succeed, if she wanted to prove them all wrong…
She needed to be more than careful. More than observant.
She needed to be proactive.
She needed to know more than they did.
She needed to be able to defend herself. Magically and otherwise.
Hermione lifted her fork, took a small bite, and swallowed.
The fear didn’t disappear. But resolve settled in its place.
October 29, 1993. Hogwarts Academic Wing
The bell rang, and students began packing their bags, preparing to leave the first year Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom. Professor Marcella Mulqueen, with her sharp nose, greying curls pinned tightly back, and stern expression, snapped her book shut and said, “Homework on my desk, neatly. I don’t want to see any parchment corners bent.”
Hermione waited until the other Slytherins and Hufflepuffs had filed out. Her heart pounded steadily. She’d made up her mind the night before. Be proactive, she had told herself.
When the last student stepped out, Hermione approached the desk.
“Professor Mulqueen?” she said quietly.
Mulqueen glanced up, “Yes, Miss Granger? Make it quick.”
Hermione swallowed and straightened her posture. “Professor, I wanted to ask if… if you could teach me some defensive spells. Just the basics. Enough to...” she hesitated, "to be able to protect myself. In case if I’m attacked.”
Mulqueen’s eyebrows shot up. A thin, incredulous laugh escaped her.
“What is it with you people,” she asked with a disdainful expression, “always expecting special privileges?”
Hermione froze.
Hermione blinked. Shock flared hot across her cheeks. “I... I beg your pardon, Professor?” she managed.
Mulqueen let out an irritated huff, as though Hermione were being deliberately slow.
“Defensive spells and duelling techniques are taught at the third-year level,” Mulqueen snapped. “Not first-year, Miss Granger. Third. Regardless of what you've been told, you aren't special. And you are not entitled you to jump ahead of your peers.”
Hermione opened her mouth, then closed it. “I… I wasn’t asking to jump ahead."
“Oh, yes you were. Don’t play coy,” Mulqueen cut in, already stacking papers. “You’ll learn proper defensive magic when you are meant to learn it. Not before. We follow a curriculum here, Miss Granger, not the whims of arrogant children.”
Mulqueen then dismissed her. “That will be all.”
Hermione argued no further. She decided to ask someone else for help.
Hermione waited until the corridor had almost emptied before she hurried after Professor Lupin. He had just finished his second period class with the third years, and was gathering parchment into his satchel with his usual quiet efficiency. Her shoes clicked too loudly on the flagstones, she winced. She didn’t want to appear overeage, even though she absolutely was.
“Professor Lupin?” she said, breathless.
He turned, mild surprise in his eyes softening into that gentle smile he always had for students. “Ah Miss Granger! Everything all right?”
Hermione clasped her hands in front of her to keep them from fidgeting. “I... Professor, I’d like to request help. With defensive spells.” She swallowed. “I’d like to be able to protect myself.”
Lupin blinked, and for a moment Hermione was afraid he’d give her the same answer Professor Mulqueen had.
Instead, his expression shifted into something more complicated - concern, understanding.
“Hermione,” he said softly, “you’re too young to be learning that sort of magic. Proper defensive and duelling work is taught in third year. You’ll learn everything you need then.” He offered a sympathetic smile as he adjusted the strap of his satchel. “You’ve plenty of time.”
Hermione’s shoulders sagged despite her best effort not to show it.
She stepped aside as a knot of Ravenclaws hurried past them, and by the time she looked back, Lupin was already turning to go.
But as he moved past her, his hand brushed hers, so lightly she almost didn’t notice, and something small and folded pressed into her palm.
Hermione froze.
Lupin didn’t look back. He simply walked away down the corridor, as calmly as ever.
She waited until she was alone, then opened her hand. A single square of parchment lay there. It was blank at first, until ink unfurled across it as if written by invisible quill strokes : Third–year DADA classroom. Lunch hour. Come alone.
And then the words vanished.
Hermione stared, heart hammering, excitement building beneath her ribs like a contained explosion.
At one o' clock, Hermione slipped into the third–year DADA classroom. Lupin was already there, sleeves rolled up, wand holstered at his wrist. He looked up as she entered.
“Good. You’re punctual.” He shut the door with a quiet flick of his wand. “We have thirty minutes. After that, you’ll go eat.”
Hermione nodded eagerly. “What will you teach me first, Professor?”
“Nothing too advanced,” he warned. “We’re not duelling. But I can show you a few basic hexes and shields, enough to keep bullies at bay.” He paused, studying her closely. “But remember, Hermione, this stays strictly between us. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Hermione said at once, almost glowing.
“Right.” Lupin moved to the centre of the room. “Before spells, I need to see your reflexes. Defending yourself is as much physical as magical.”
Hermione nodded again.
“We’ll start simple,” he said. “I’m going to cast a very mild stinging jinx. Barely more than a tap. Your task is to dodge. Ready?”
Hermione nodded, though her hands were already clammy.
“Good. Three… two… one”
A faint flash of blue light zipped toward her. Hermione yelped and turned the wrong way entirely. The jinx caught her squarely on the shoulder. It wasn't painful, just sharp enough to surprise her.
“Ah!” she squeaked. “Sorry... I thought you were going to aim for my right!”
“I did aim for your right,” Lupin said gently.
Hermione blinked. “Oh.”
“Let’s try again.”
He flicked his wand. The next jinx came slower, drifting almost lazily. Hermione tried to sidestep, but in her panic she hopped backward instead, tripped on her own heel, and landed on her bottom with a soft thud.
Lupin winced sympathetically. “Not quite what I had in mind.”
Hermione’s face went bright pink. “I slipped,” she muttered, scrambling back up.
“Yes,” Lupin said kindly, “I saw.”
Hermione braced herself, determined not to fail a third time. Lupin lifted his wand.
“This time, don’t predict where it’s going. Just watch. Breathe. React.”
She nodded hard.
The jinx zipped toward her again - slow, easy, almost mercifully obvious. Hermione made a split–second decision to duck.
She ducked too late.
The jinx tapped the top of her head.
Hermione groaned, rubbing her scalp. “Professor, that was so slow.”
“Yes,” Lupin said, smiling with a mixture of patience and pity, “and it still hit you.”
Hermione wanted to melt into the floor.
Lupin stepped closer, lowering his wand as if to reassure her that the torment was over. He pressed a hand to his mouth, very politely—but she could tell he was fighting a smile. Not mocking, just… endeared.
“All right,” he said softly, “I have enough information.”
Hermione’s ears burned. “I’m hopeless.”
“No, Hermione.” Lupin said, “You’re unfit and untrained. There’s a difference. Hermione… your reflexes are severely lacking.” He gave her an concerned look. “Have you ever played any Muggle sports?”
“No,” she admitted, cheeks burning. “never.”
“I figured as much” His tone softened. “There’s no doubt that your spell casting is brilliant. But defensive magic requires agility, endurance, spatial awareness. You can’t protect yourself if your body can’t keep up with your mind.”
Hermione stared at the floor.
“So,” Lupin continued, “from now on, you will run for thirty minutes every morning. Every morning,” he repeated firmly. “And you must eat a balanced diet. No skipping meals. Your magic can only work with what your body can support.”
Hermione straightened, resolve settling over her like armour. “I can do that, sir”
“Good.” Lupin smiled, warm and proud. “We will train three times a week. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. You will be here no later than ten past one. Thirty minutes each session. We’ll start with shield work once your reflexes improve.”
Hermione’s face lit up. “Thank you, Professor.”
He waved her toward the door. “Go on now. Go have lunch. And remember, this is our secret.”
Hermione beamed, "Yes, Professor. Thanks again."
Clutching her bag to her chest as she hurried to the Great Hall. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, she felt a quiet sense of security. It wasn't just that she'd be taught to defend herself, but the knowledge that an adult was willing to go above and beyond to help her feel safe.
October 29, 1993. Howard Academic Wing
The last class of the day had just let out, and the first–years were dragging their bags down the third-floor corridor when the shouting began.
Neville Longbottom was pressed against the wall, clutching his books while Draco Malfoy dangled Neville’s Remembrall between two fingers, holding it just out of reach. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him like two thick pillars.
“Come now, Longbottom,” Draco drawled. “What’s this little bauble supposed to do again? Turn red when you’ve forgotten something? Looks like it should be red all the time for you.”
Neville flushed, trying again to grab it. “Give it back!”
Draco tilted it higher, chuckling. “Maybe if you jump for it....”
“MALFOY!”
Harry’s voice cut through the corridor. He and Ron had turned the corner at a run. Harry didn’t think, didn’t plan. The sight of Neville trembling, back to the wall, had clicked something sharp inside him.
“Drop it,” Harry warned.
Draco sneered. “Or what, Potter? You’ll...”
Harry’s wand was already up.
“Mordax Cometa!”
A bright bolt shot forward. It was not a mild stinging jinx but a sharp, well-aimed one born of pure instinct. It struck Draco squarely in the chest.
At the same moment Ron, startled but reacting, fired a second jinx at Crabbe and Goyle. Not as powerful as Harry’s, but enough to make them lose their balance. Both boys stumbled backward as if shoved hard. Draco, completely unprepared, lost control of the Remembrall and landed on the stone floor with a graceless thud.
Gasps broke out. Crabbe fell on top of Goyle, and Goyle’s yelp echoed down the hall. A few students snickered. Seamus clapped.
Draco scrambled to his feet, face drained of colour from shock, then turning blotchy with humiliation.
“You’ll pay for that, Potter!”, he sputtered.
But before he could lunge, a stern voice cut through the noise.
“Enough!”
Helen Grant, a sixth year Gryffindor Prefect, strode into the crowd.
“Twenty points from Gryffindor,” she snapped, turning a steely glare on Harry and Ron. “And twenty from Slytherin for provoking the fight. Everyone, show's over. Clear the corridor and get to your House Towers. Now!"
Students dispersed in a flurry of whispers. Draco lingered just long enough to retrieve the Remembrall from the floor and shove it into Neville’s chest.
“Careful with your toys, Longbottom,” he spat.
Ron immediately came to Neville’s side and put a protective arm around him, glaring daggers at Malfoy.
Draco turned on his heel.
Then he paused. And turned back.
And stepped close enough that Harry could see the cold fury burning icy-bright in his eyes.
“Potter,” Draco said softly, dangerously, “I challenge you to a wizard’s duel. Samhain night, when the teachers are busy with the cleansing ritual", Draco continued. “We'll go wand to wand in the Forbidden Forest. Weasley can be your second. Goyle will be mine."
A thin, cruel smile curved his lips. “Let’s see what James Potter’s son can actually do.”
Harry, still buzzing with adrenaline, glanced at Ron, who nodded his assent.
“Fine", Harry growled, "I’ll be there.”
For a split second, Draco looked triumphant. Then he turned and stalked away, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering after him.
“We’ll teach that half-blood and the blood-traitor a lesson, won’t we Malfoy?” Goyle rumbled eagerly, as they sat in their Common Room later that evening, “We’ll smash them.”
Draco lounged in an armchair, stroking his wand with his thumb, his eyes glittering with satisfaction.
“Don’t be daft, Goyle,” he said lazily.
Goyle blinked. “What?”
Draco smirked.
“There are far more… elegant ways to win than smashing things.”
He leaned back, gaze drifting toward the serpent-embroidered curtains as a plan took shape behind his cool, calculating eyes.
“I don't understand", said Crabbe, "you challenged him to a duel".
"Let's just say that after Samhain, we won't have to worry about Potter or Weasley." Draco’s eyes gleamed darkly.
