Toil and Trouble Chapter 12 : A game of deceit - Part 2 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)
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October 29, 1993. Knockturn Alley
The entrance to the shop was nothing more than a sliver between two leaning buildings, a crack in the brickwork where no honest person would look twice. Sirius ran a hand over the bricks. Cold. Damp. And humming with layered wards. It was amateur work, but numerous.
Harry’s trembling voice echoed in Sirius’s mind.
“It was this one. I saw him in my dream.”
Sirius inhaled sharply. The protective rage that always simmered under his ribs rose like fire.
“Right then,” he muttered. “Let’s say hello.”
He raised his wand, flicked it once, and the outermost ward sputtered. Another flick, and a razor-thin line of blue split the second ward. The third was a blood-latch, Sirius pressed his thumb to the brick, hissed as it burned and accepted him. The lock unspooled.
He kicked the door open.
Three wizards inside looked up sharply - a stocky bald man behind the counter, a tall one sorting crates, and the third, the one from Harry’s dream, dishevelled and possibly intoxicated, holding a ledger.
They froze. Sirius didn’t.
“Evening, gentlemen.”
The bald man reached for his wand.
Sirius was faster.
A whip-crack of red light blasted the wand out of the man’s grip, pinning him to the wall with a stunning charm so strong the wood splintered behind him.
The tall wizard lunged forward, raising crates as makeshift shields. Sirius flicked his wand, nonverbal and clean, and they shattered mid-air like exploding ice. Shards rained down. The wizard staggered.
A second spell came from Sirius, sharp as a knife, “Incarcerous!”
Ropes appeared, snapping tight around the man’s arms and legs, binding him to the floor.
The third wizard bolted for the back door.
Sirius’s eyes flashed, as he slammed his wand downward, “Impedimenta!”
The fleeing man was thrown forward as though the air had become solid. He hit the ground with a grunt, sliding across the dusty floor.
Silence.
Sirius strode to the wizard whose smile Harry had described so precisely. He hauled him up by the collar and slammed him against the counter.
“I want you to think carefully,” Sirius said softly, calmly. The tone that meant danger.
“You've been selling some very special potions, haven't you Lomy? Very illegal potions. So let’s begin again, and don't even think of lying."
The man squeaked, “Wh,what do you want?!”
“Information,” Sirius hissed. “What have you sold in the past twenty-four hours?"
The man swallowed hard. “Explosives. Potion-based ones.”
Sirius’s jaw clenched. “Name. Now.”
“It’s called Dragon’s Breath Volatile. Uses powdered vipertooth scale. A simple Incendio and the explosion can bring down a house.”
“How many did you sell?”
“A hundred,” he croaked “A single buyer. He paid in full.”
Sirius’s eyes narrowed. “Describe him.”
“He looked... frail. Nervous. Bald, but not too old. Probably around thirty. Twitchy left hand, smelled of burnt herbs…”
Sirius’s breath caught.
Quirinus Quirrell.
Magical researcher. Recently missing from the academic circuit. Rumoured to be studying unstable magic.
Sirius loosened his grip only enough to keep the man from passing out.
“Who else knows about this sale?” he demanded.
“No one! I swear it!”
Sirius’s wand pressed lightly against the wizard’s chest. “Pray that’s true.”
The man collapsed the moment Sirius released him. Sirius stepped over the stunned and bound criminals, as he walked out with a purpose. As soon as he stepped out into the street, he Apparated to the Burrow.
October 29, 1993. The Burrow
The house was unusually quiet. Young Ginny Weasley was fast asleep in her bedroom, completely unaware of the conversation the adults were having in the drawing room. A silencing charm was placed at her door for good measure.
Tonight there were no clanking pans, no gnomes shrieking in the garden, no twins detonating something upstairs. Molly Weasley sat next to her husband, not as a wife and mother, but as a member of the Order of the Phoenix. A hard edge to her facial expression.
Sirius stood near the hearth, lean and restless, still smelling faintly of Knockturn Alley dust. Remus sat on the arm of a chair nearby, watching him with quiet concern. Moody observed the fire, looking as though he was making a thousand calculations in his head. And in the center of the room, calm as a drifting cloud, was Albus Dumbledore.
“Tell them, Sirius,” he said gently.
Sirius took a breath. “Harry identified one of the wizards from his dream. I found the man… and he talked.”
Arthur stopped pacing. Molly’s hand flew to her mouth.
Sirius continued, voice low. “The wizard who bought the illegal explosives, Dragon’s Breath Volatile, fits the description of Quirinus Quirrell.”
Arthur blinked. “My word! The academic chap? The one researching Balkan curses?”
“The same,” Sirius said darkly. “The Knockturn seller described him as frail, twitchy, nervous… and very determined.”
“Determined enough to buy a hundred volatile charges,” Remus cut in quietly. “That’s not research. That’s preparation.”
Sirius pressed on. “If Quirrell has fallen in with… whoever Harry is dreaming about… then we’re dealing with something coordinated.”
Remus added, “It all adds up doesn't it? The Goblin, Vault number seven-one-three.
Every eye turned to the Headmaster.
Dumbledore folded his hands, his expression grave. “Which is why it may be time,” he said, “to put our plan in motion.”
Molly swallowed. “Albus… will the Goblins allow it?”
“The Goblins have been informed,” Dumbledore said. “They were reluctant to involve the Ministry, understandably so. But far more willing to admit members of the Order."
Sirius nodded sharply. “Good. Then we move fast.”
Moody grunted. “We’ll need a small group. Too many wands and the Goblins’ll throw us out.”
"The four of us will suffice, I presume?", asked Molly.
Moody nodded. "Yes, we will. He wouldn't have put together a huge team either. He'd want to draw as little attention as possible.
“When?”, asked Arthur.
"Samhain night.", said Dumbledore, "Emberclaw has confirmed as much. And he has been told to play his part just as he would have if we hadn't gotten to him first".
"It's settled then", said Moody with finality, "Samhain".
October 30, 1993. Malfoy Manor
The dining hall at Malfoy Manor glowed with soft candlelight, every flame reflected in polished silver and the cool sheen of the mahogany table. Draco sat with his parents, straight-backed, trying not to look as tense as he felt.
Narcissa leaned toward him with quiet concern, lifting a serving spoon.
“Draco, darling, you’ve barely eaten anything. Take a little more.”
She placed an extra spoonful of rosemary potatoes onto his plate before he could protest.
Draco muttered a thanks and forced himself to eat. He’d been home barely a few hours, and already the Manor felt colder than Hogwarts.
Lucius looked at his son over the rim of his glass, and said with chilling softness,
“So. Tell me, Draco… the Muggle-born is still scoring more points than you?”
He arched a pale eyebrow, the sarcasm unmistakable, the disappointment sharpened to a blade.
Draco’s grip tightened around his fork.
“She.... she’s only good at some things,” he muttered, heat rising in his face. “It won’t last.”
Narcissa intervened at once, her tone bright and strained.
“Draco, why don't you stay for Samhain tomorrow?" She reached out and brushed Draco’s hand with her fingertips.
Trying to steady himself, Draco took a breath.
“Actually Mother, Father… I want to spend Samhain night at Hogwarts.”
Narcissa looked up, surprised.
“Oh? I had hoped you’d stay here. We could have....
“I can’t,” Draco said. “There’s something I need to do. Something important.” He lifted his chin, forcing confidence into his voice. “Something that will make you both proud.”
Lucius’ expression sharpened with interest.
“Oh?”
He leaned back in his chair, assessing Draco as though evaluating a weapon being forged.
“Well then… I look forward to seeing the results. I do hope, Draco”, his voice dropped into a low purr, “that you won’t disappoint me.”
Draco nodded, heart pounding but determined. He would not disappoint them.
Not this time.
October 31, 1993. Hogwarts's Great Hall
The Great Hall looked like a midnight dream.
Above the students’ heads, the enchanted ceiling had turned into a vast sweep of star studded black, so clear that it looked like one could climb onto the long tables and step straight into it. Hundreds of floating lanterns drifted lazily through the air, their carved faces flickering gold. Twisting garlands of autumn leaves, rust, amber, deep wine and red, curled around the marble pillars. The air smelled of woodsmoke, cinnamon, roasted meat, and something sweet and spiced that hung warmly over the four House tables.
As delicious as the meal was, Harry and Ron were careful not to eat too much, thinking of their duel later that night. They'd already gotten Fred and George to agree to help them step out during the Cleansing.
The plates overflowed with Samhain dishes. Herb-roasted venison, treacle glazed ham, pumpkin-and-sage casseroles, crispy roast potatoes, honeyed chestnuts, and soft cauldron loaves that melted on the tongue. Now, as the feast wound down, students were leaning back, laughing, wiping their mouths, or reaching for last slices of pie.
Harry sat among Ron, Neville, Seamus, and Dean, listening to Ron reenacting McGonagall’s expression when a first year had accidentally set his quill on fire.
“And she didn’t even blink,” Ron said, demonstrating the stiff-lipped pursing of her mouth. “Just cast Aguamenti like she’d been expecting it all along.”
The table erupted in laughter. Harry grinned, shoulders loosening. It was one of those rare evenings that felt truly peaceful and uncomplicated.
His gaze drifted instinctively toward the staff table.
“Remus isn’t here,” he murmured.
Ron, mid-laugh, glanced up. “Yeah. Said he was spending Samhain with Sirius, didn’t he?”
Harry nodded. “I’m glad. They… they shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
Samhain always stirred memories of the dead, of what had been lost. Sirius and Remus had lost far too much, far too early. Harry felt a quiet warmth settle over him knowing that, tonight at least, they had each other.
The feast came to its natural end, and the air filled with chatter as students prepared to leave for their common rooms.
Harry and Ron were about to do the same, just as a voice called brightly, “Oi, Potter!”
He looked up.
A Gryffindor third-year boy was weaving through the crowd toward him with an easy grin. Harry recognized the face vaguely but had never spoken to him.
“Brilliant feast, yeah?” the boy said cheerfully. Without waiting for a reply, he stuck out his hand. “Happy Samhain!”
Harry blinked, a little startled, but shook his hand politely. The boy’s grip was firm and enthusiastic. He put an arm around Harry shoulders, "You look fit mate. Reckon you'll try out for the Quidditch team next year?"
“Oh...thanks,” Harry said, still thrown by the sudden familiarity. "Yes, probably."
"Well goodnight then.", the boy said, slapping Harry on the back, and walked away quickly.
Ron had stopped mid-stretch, eyebrow raised high in suspicion.
Harry stared after him for a moment. “Er… nice bloke, I guess?”
Ron snorted. “Bit weird, if you ask me.”
But the Hall was bustling, people were moving, and the moment slipped away in the flow of students leaving the feast.
And somewhere in the castle, a silver-haired Slytherin smirked in anticipation of the disaster he believed he had just set in motion.
October 31, 1993. Slytherin Tower
Hermione walked alone toward her room at the end of the long corridor, the torchlight flickering along the damp stone walls. She was thinking of a million different things at once. She sighed and turned the corner toward her dormitory hall, and stopped.
Voices drifted from one of the other dorm rooms. Loud, high-pitched, unmistakably Pansy Parkinson. She wasn’t exactly quiet, especially when she thought she had something important, and scandalous to brag about.
“…I’m telling you, it’s brilliant,” Pansy was saying, her voice thick with self-satisfaction. “Draco thought of everything.”
There was a chorus of eager murmurs Millicent Bulstrode, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Jenna Avion, and two others whose voices Hermione didn’t recognise.
“What did he do?” Millicent pressed.
Pansy lowered her voice dramatically, though not nearly enough.
“Well, he got this angel thing. Angel… Angel-root? Yes, that. Some awful illegal herb, from Knockturn Alley. And he paid that dim Gryffindor...what’s his name? The lanky one—Simpson? Samson? Whatever....to slip it into Potter’s pocket after the feast.”
Hermione froze.
Her pulse began to beat loudly in her ears.
Tracey gasped. “Illegal? As in, Ministry-illegal?”
“Obviously,” Pansy said smugly. “Draco said it’s enough to get Potter expelled on the spot. Him and his Weasley sidekick.”
Hermione felt her stomach drop.
She leaned forward just a fraction, careful, silent.
“And the duel?” Tracy asked. “Weren’t they supposed to meet in the Forest tonight?”
Pansy laughed, a mean, simpering sound. “Oh, Draco’s not actually going. He’s not stupid. He’s just going to tell Professor Snape that Potter and Weasley are sneaking off into the Forbidden Forest to gather Angel Root, and that they planned to smoke it later. And Snape will find it on them. Easy.”
"But Pansy", Daphne said quietly, "that might get them arrested".
“Oh of course they will.” Pansy said with relish. "Those two idiots are probably in the forest already. And Draco must be on his way to tell Snape. It'll be perfect!"
Hermione’s breath caught. She didn’t wait to hear the rest. Her mind was already racing.
Harry and Ron thought they were on their way to the duel. But Draco Malfoy was on his way to Snape. To frame them for a crime they did not commit. If he succeeded it could ruin Ron and Harry’s lives.
Her decision crystallized in an instant.
Hermione turned on her heel and sprinted down the corridor, her robes flying behind her like a shadow, heart hammering with urgency.
Hermione reached the eighth floor landing, just in time to see Draco Malfoy striding confidently toward the narrow black door that led to Professor Snape’s private quarters. He looked self-satisfied. Certain. Victorious.
She sprinted forward and threw up a silencing charm around them with a sharp flick of her wand.
A bubble of quiet snapped into place.
Draco whirled around, shock and disgust twisting across his face the moment he saw her.
“What do you want?” he sneered.
Hermione’s voice came out tight and breathless, but controlled. “I’ll tell you this once, Malfoy. Only once. Drop whatever you’re planning. Walk away. And tell Professor Snape the truth.”
He blinked at her, momentarily confused, before his expression warped with hatred.
“Get lost, Mudblood! This is none of your business."
Hermione moved before Malfoy could blink.
“Petrificus Totalus!”
His body snapped stiff, arms plastering to his sides, legs slamming together. His eyes widened in shock, but he toppled exactly like a board. Straight and helpless.
Hermione caught him just in time with a shaky Levitation Charm. Her arms trembled from nerves, but the spell held. She dragged the rigid Malfoy behind an enormous suit of armour standing sentinel along the wall. The shadows swallowed him.
Her breathing was ragged now.
This was insane. Completely, utterly insane.
She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to force her thoughts into order.
Tell a teacher, her rational mind whispered. Tell Professor McGonagall, even Professor Snape. Someone trustworthy.
But then....
Harry already had the Angel Root in his pocket.
The Ministry’s strict laws.
Snape’s undisguised hatred for Gryffindors.
And the way he had dismissed her this very morning without listening.
Her stomach twisted.
If they searched Harry and found the herb…
If Snape assumed Gryffindors were pulling some idiotic stunt… If no one believed her, a first year Slytherin Muggle-born…
Harry and Ron would be destroyed.
Don't you ever use that disgusting word again, Malfoy!
“No,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “I can’t risk it. I can’t...there isn’t time.”
A memory flashed through her mind.
The Casting Chamber and the runes carved into the wall.
The jagged sigil Parvati had pointed out in her notes. The one that meant exit, but not just exit.
It also took intention into account. Hermione set off. Terrified and determined.
The Casting Chamber was quiet and empty. Hermione’s heart hammered as she ran to the far wall, where the runes were carved deep into the ancient stone.
There it was.
Hermione raised her wand.
Remember the sequence. Focus. Believe it will open.
She whispered the activation phrase from Parvati’s parchment, then traced the rune’s outline in the air. One stroke downward, one across, a loop inward, and then a sharp tapping motion at the center to “wake” the glyph.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Hermione’s stomach dropped. Then, the rune flared.
A soft, white glow pulsed through the carving, spreading like veins through the stone. Hermione stepped back as the entire wall began to hum, pebbles vibrating loose at the edges.
The glowing lines brightened, and the stone slid sideways with a deep grinding sound, revealing a dark, narrow staircase spiraling down.
Cold air rushed out, carrying the scent of earth and wet leaves.
As Hermione was about to step forward a rustling sound caught her attention. She turned around to find the Bloody Baron floating in mid air. His eyes boring into her.
"Careful, Muggle-born", he said, "The Forest will not suffer fools tonight". And he floated away.
Hermione shoved branches aside and stumbled forward, breathing hard. Her her hair wild from running and ducking through the narrow tunnel.
The Forest loomed before her in shifting black layers, the trees swaying like watchful giants. Wind carried the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. Somewhere deeper inside, something howled.
But Hermione didn’t stop.
Harry and Ron were out there.
She sprinted across the leaf-strewn ground, wand raised, whispering “Lumos!” to light her way. The pale glow trembled with her shaking hand.
“Harry! Ron!” she called in a frantic whisper.
For a terrifying moment, nothing answered except the rustle of branches.
Then, “Hermione?”
She spun toward the sound. Harry emerged from the shadows, Ron right behind him, both startled and wide-eyed.
“Hermione Granger?!” Ron blurted. “What are you doing out here?"
“Malfoy isn’t coming,” Hermione gasped, clutching a stitch in her side. “You need to get back to the Castle right now.”
Ron’s brow furrowed. “What... what d’you mean?"
Hermione stepped closer, fighting to steady her voice.
“He tricked you. He tricked both of you. This whole duel is a setup.”
Harry blinked in confusion. “A setup?”
Hermione nodded, breathless and urgent.
“Draco paid a third-year Gryffindor to slip Angel Root into your pocket after the feast. He was going to tell Professor Snape that you and Ron came into the Forest to gather it illegally. You’d be caught with it and expelled. Possibly arrested.”
Hermione took a breath and continued.
“He was on his way to Snape's rooms when I found him, and I left him stunned. He intended to send the teachers straight here to catch you with the Angel Root. You wouldn’t have even gotten the chance to explain!”
Harry’s hand flew to his pocket. He reached in and pulled put a handful of the herb. He threw it away as if it had stung him.
Ron swore loudly. “I bloody knew something was off! Malfoy doesn’t fight duels. He hides behind Daddy’s gold!”
Hermione grabbed their sleeves, tugging hard.
“We need to leave. Now. If a teacher comes and finds you here.... And… and this forest is dangerous.”
No sooner had the words left her mouth, a deep, shuddering groan rolled through the trees behind them. A groan so low it vibrated in their ribs.
The three of them froze in fright.
Ron whispered, “Please tell me that was the wind.”
It wasn’t.
The ground trembled. A slow, heavy thud followed by another.
Then the trees behind them shook violently, branches cracking like bones. Something massive pushed through the undergrowth, snapping saplings like twigs.
A final, thunderous crash, and it stepped into the clearing.
A troll.