Toil and Trouble Chapter 14 : Competition and Cooperation - Part 1 of 3 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)

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November 22, 1993. The Great Hall, Hogwarts

Draco Malfoy sat rigidly at the Slytherin table, pushing eggs around his plate as the Great Hall buzzed around him. The smell of sausages and porridge wafted thickly through the air, but his appetite had not returned, not really, since Samhain.

Two weekends he had avoided going home.

Two weekends of pretending he had reading, extra homework, anything to delay what he knew was coming. Of course, it only made things worse.

When he had finally stepped through the Floo into the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, Lucius had been waiting. Standing. Cane in hand. The firelight had thrown sharp lines across his father’s face.

"So Draco", his drawl was dangerous, "tell me, whatever became of your big plan to rid the school of Harry Potter and the Weasley boy?"

Draco reluctantly told his father the truth. How he used Blaise’s contact in Knockturn Alley to action the Angel Root, how he paid a Gryffindor third year, a half-blood named Kurtis Langley, twenty Galleons to plant it on Potter, how he had manipulated Potter into going into the Forbidden Forest.

“Twenty Galleons,” Lucius had repeated after Draco explained, “Clearly, our ancestral fortune hasn’t bought you foresight.”

Draco had wanted to sink through the floor.

He had braced himself for a tirade, but the cutting disdain was worse. And then had come the question he had dreaded most.

“How,” Lucius drawled, each syllable dangerously calm, “did it all fall apart?”

Draco had stared at a spot on the carpet and muttered, “The Mudblood. Granger. She overheard Parkinson.”

There had been a pause, long and cold. Lucius had merely shaken his head and turned to Narcissa.

“Where did we go wrong, Cissy?”

Narcissa, poised as ever, had only folded her hands and said softly, “My love, I am sure Draco has learned his lesson from this failure.”

Draco had swallowed the humiliation like poison.

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, Narcissa had smoothed his hair back and spoken in that quiet, lethal tone she reserved for true instruction.

“Your father is harsh,” she said, “but not wrong. A plan shared too widely is already half-lost. Be careful whom you trust, Draco. And keep your secrets to yourself until they are ready to bloom.”

He’d nodded. He had memorised every word.

Now, in the Hall, Pansy Parkinson was simpering beside him, twirling a strand of hair around her finger and leaning far too close.

“Draco, are you sure you’re eating enough? You look tired.”

Merlin, she was pathetic. Fawning over him like that after he'd humiliated her publicly. His mother wanted him to “repair the friendship,” so he tolerated the babbling, but every whine from her throat made his temples throb.

He forced a polite sound, something between a grunt and a hum, and looked anywhere but at her.

His gaze landed, unfortunately, on her.

Granger.

Sitting near the edge of the Slytherin table, reading the Prophet while chewing mechanically. Completely oblivious to him. Completely self-assured. Like she didn’t have a care in the world.

A hot, sharp stab of anger lanced through him.

She had ruined everything.

Worse. She'd humiliated him. If his father ever found out she’d hexed him, stunned him, out-duelled him. Lucius would never let him forget it.

Draco’s chest tightened. That flicker of shame, the one he kept shoving behind his Occlumency walls, rose up again, threatening to leak through the cracks.

How had she even managed it? A Mudblood.

Draco clenched his jaw and lowered his eyes to his plate, forcing the humiliation back down where it belonged.

He would not think about it.

He would not.

But his gaze drifted back to her anyway, sitting there, eating and reading like she hadn't just shifted the ground under his feet. And the shame, sharp and acidic, burned anew.

Draco stabbed a piece of toast, only half-aware of Blaise flicking open the Prophet beside him. The front page smacked loudly as Blaise flattened it out across the table.

“Edmond Ashworth again,” Blaise muttered. “The man’s everywhere.”

Draco glanced over. The headline sprawled across the full width of the page :

THE HEART’S ROAD : ASHWORTH’S EUROPEAN TOUR AIMS TO HEAL THE SCARS OF WAR

Purebloods, Half-bloods, and Muggle-borns Should Stand As One, Says the French Minister of Magic.

There were photographs of Ashworth shaking hands with witches and wizards from different countries, all smiles and pleasantries.

Leonard Blackbourne, a boy with dark hair and darker eyes, sighed dramatically. “Honestly. Does he ever stop? Every week it’s another article about peace and unity.... this forgiveness nonsense."

"He seems to be having quite an impact. It appears people are drawn to his message.", commented Daphne Greengrass, buttering her toast.

“It's theatre,” Draco said coolly, seizing the moment to reclaim the spotlight. He leaned back, folding his arms with practiced indifference. “I heard Mother and Father discussing it. The whole initiative is propaganda. A way to make Purebloods look like the villains, as if we’re the ones who need redeeming.”

The Pureblood Slytherins around him nodded in agreement.

Draco continued, voice sharpening. “And really, who are they to forgive us? Forgiveness implies we did something to them.”

A few feet down the table a half-blood named Evan Thompson shifted, then mumbled, “Well… some people did suffer. Forgiveness may not be such a bad idea..."

Draco’s head snapped up so fast Pansy flinched.

“If a bunch of idiots got caught in the middle, maybe they shouldn’t have been blood traitors.”

Thompson fell silent.

Pansy smirked in delight. She did love it when Draco was vicious. To other people.

Daphne looked uncomfortable. Blaise looked as unbothered as always. And Crabbe and Goyle just nodded in agreement with their leader, having nothing of substance to contribute.

Draco tried to finish his breakfast, now well and truly irritated.

Hermione sat at the very end of the Slytherin table, nibbling on her toast as she pored over the front page of the Daily Prophet. Photographs of Edmond Ashworth dominated the spread. Standing in a sunlit square in Vienna, shaking hands with Muggle-borns, Half-bloods, Purebloods, all smiling radiantly.

The article was uncharacteristically warm for the Prophet. Glowing, even. Hermione felt a faint lift in her chest reading about reconciliation and rebuilding. Though she wasn't free from certain misgivings about the initiative.

A loud scoff snapped the moment. The other Slytherins were discussing the article in less than flattering terms.

Hermione tried to ignore them, but a soft, uncertain voice made her look up.

A boy named Evan Thompson commented on how this initiative might be good for Wizarding Europe.

Before he could finish, Draco Malfoy retorted sharply, “Well then they shouldn’t have been blood traitors.”

Evan’s mouth snapped shut. His shoulders hunched. The boy sitting beside him placed a hand on his arm under the table. A silent warning, silent comfort, silent don’t.

The conversation died instantly.

Hermione’s stomach turned. The dynamic of House Slytherin was unmistakable. Even some of the older students showed deference to Draco, moving aside when he walked down the corridor, gauging his mood before they dared speak to him. Pansy Parkinson hovered at his elbow, refilling his pumpkin juice, sliding the bacon platter toward him, smiling adoringly every time he so much as breathed in her direction.

Pathetic, Hermione thought, watching Pansy simper, Fawning over him after the way he'd treated her just three weeks ago.

Hermione folded her newspaper, gathered her bag, and rose. She really didn’t want to hear another word of this. On the way to class, she glanced down a side corridor, and froze for a beat.

That third-year boy of House Gryffindor, whom Harry had identified as being the one who planted the Angel Root on him was hobbling past, his face grotesquely swollen and purple.

Hermione blinked.

Fred and George…

Well. She couldn’t exactly pretend to be sorry.

Serves him right, she thought, and continued down the corridor.

The third period saw half of first year Slytherins sharing the Potions class with half of first year Gryffindors. Ron and Hermione sat only a few feet from each other. Next to Ron sat Dean Thomas, whom Ron introduced to Hermione in a whisper.

Dean nodded at her with a polite smile, Hermione nodded back.

Cauldrons simmered, bubbled, and occasionally hissed in warning as first-years scrambled to keep up with Professor Cassian Morven's sharp instructions.

Ron Weasley was already in trouble.

His mixture had turned a muddy brown, thickening toward something that looked alarmingly like porridge left out overnight. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath as the professor prowled down the aisle.

Hermione worked quietly at her station, her cutting precise, her flame steady and controlled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ron flick his wand uncertainly.

Wrong direction, she noted.

Without looking at him, she angled her head and murmured under her breath, “Stir clockwise, not anti-clockwise, Ron.
Three dandelion leaves. Exactly three.”

Ron froze, then adjusted according to her instructions. His cauldron brightened from sludgy brown to a respectable pale yellow, and with the right viscosity.

Professor Morven walked past just in time to see the change.

“Weasley,” he said, voice cool but not entirely disapproving, “You've made a good effort. Five points to Gryffindor.”

Ron blinked at Hermione, wide-eyed with gratitude. She gave him the smallest nod and turned back to her work.

When the professor reached her bench, he stopped altogether. Hermione’s potion was perfect. Shimmering, golden, and releasing a faint, clean scent exactly as described in the textbook.

“Ten points to Slytherin,” he said. “Excellent work, Miss Granger.”

The class spilled into the corridor, voices echoing off the stone walls. Hermione was on her way to Charms when Tracey Davis appeared in front of her, arms crossed, expression tightened into something that was meant to look intimidating.

“You know,” Tracey said, chin lifting, “helping a Gryffindor makes you a traitor to our House.”

A few Slytherins slowed their steps, sensing drama. Malfoy, walking ahead, didn’t turn around but paused just noticeably enough to listen.

Hermione’s gaze remained level, cool, and wholly unimpressed.

“A traitor?” she repeated softly. “Interesting logic.”

Tracey’s scowl deepened.

Hermione stepped closer, voice still calm.
“Tell me, Tracey, how many points did you lose Slytherin when your potion turned into green slime? Fifteen, wasn’t it?”

Tracey reddened. “That... that was different..."

“And today,” Hermione went on, her tone edged with steel, “I earned Slytherin ten points.”

She tilted her head the way Snape sometimes did when delivering a quiet, lethal assessment.

“So perhaps,” she said, “you should reevaluate which of us is actually more valuable to Slytherin.”

A hush fell over the small group gathered nearby. Tracey opened her mouth, then closed it again, hands curling into fists.
Hermione walked past her without a backward glance, her bag slung over her shoulder, her stride steady and confident.

Behind her, Daphne Greengrass muttered, “She’s got a point, Tracey…”

Hermione allowed herself the faintest of smiles as she climbed the staircase toward her next class.

It was quarter to five, and the Slytherin first-year floor was quiet, as everyone was outside already gathered in the stands to watch the Slytherin vs Gryffindor Quidditch match. Everyone, except Hermione Granger who was in the casting chamber, practicing for the Transfiguration competition.

She stood alone in the center of the space, wand raised.

“Aquila Forma.”

A quill on the far table rippled, stretched, and shifted into the shape of a small wooden eagle. Its wings unfurled once before stiffening back into inanimate form. Hermione frowned. Not enough detail. She could do better.

She flicked her wand again, muttering the incantation with sharper clarity. The eagle regained life for a moment, more refined, more precise, before settling.

She allowed herself a pleased breath. But this still wasn't good enough. She'd be up against the likes of Parvati Patil, whose skill in Transfiguration was well known.

Hermione was about to cast again, when a voice cut through the chamber like a blade of cold air.

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione stiffened, turning quickly.

Professor Snape stood near the doorway, black robes falling around him like shadows come to life. His expression was unreadable, though his dark eyes flicked from her wand to the transformed objects behind her.

“I see,” he said softly, “that you are practicing for the inter-house competition.”

“Yes, sir.” She tried not to sound nervous. “I try to get in some practice whenever I can.”

Snape raised an eyebrow. "I’m certain Professor Glass is delighted to have a student who takes Transfiguration quite this seriously.”

Hermione couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or a mild rebuke. She kept her face neutral.

Snape’s gaze shifted to the enchanted windows along the wall, charmed to show whatever lay beyond the room’s stone fortifications. Outside, the sky was still bright, the distant roar of a crowd could occasionally be heard.

“Tell me,” he said, turning back to her, “why are you not outside? Your House is playing Gryffindor.”

“Oh! I…” Hermione hesitated. “I’m not that interested in sports, sir.”

For a heartbeat, Snape was silent.

Then he stepped closer, his voice dipping into something quieter, firmer, edged with the weight of House expectation.

“Loyalty to one’s House, Miss Granger, is not limited to points and academic distinction.” His eyes held hers. “Slytherin values unity. Presence. Support. If you wish to be considered a true member of this House, you would do well to show it. Especially in public.”

Hermione swallowed. “I didn’t mean to seem disloyal, Professor. I just though..."

“That is precisely the problem.” A soft rustle of his robes as he turned away. “You are thinking only of your interests, not your House’s.”

Hermione’s cheeks warmed, not with shame, but with the strange sting of wanting to belong while still resenting the expectation.

Snape paused at the doorway. “I suggest,” he said without looking back, “that you make an appearance at the pitch. Slytherin notices who stands with them… and who does not.”

His footsteps faded down the corridor.

Harry and Ron were halfway down the path to the Quidditch Pitch, the wind cold and sharp with the promise of rain, when a voice called out behind them.

“Potter!”, said Gryffindor Captain Marianne O'Connell, as she walked up to them, “The Headmaster wants to see you. Says it’s urgent.”

Harry blinked. “Now?”

“Yes, now. He asked for you specifically.”

Harry exchanged a look with Ron.

“I’ll save you a seat,” Ron said, “Hurry up though. Our first Quidditch game at school"

Harry gave a nod, then hurried back toward the castle.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, sorting through a stack of parchment when Harry entered. He glanced up and smiled, a little tiredly.

“Harry. My apologies for summoning you when you were surely eager to join your friends. I am… overdue for this conversation. Do sit down.”

Harry sat down. “Headmaster, it’s all right.”

Dumbledore folded his hands, leaning forward.

“I imagine,” he said gently, “that after the incident at Gringotts and the article in the Daily Prophet, you have many questions for me. And I am sorry it took me so long to speak with you. Certain matters demanded my attention.”

Harry nodded. His pulse quickened a little. “Sir, Remus and Sirius told me that the dreams I had before the attack helped them figure out Voldemort’s plan.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “They did. Your warning allowed us precious time to act.”

Harry hesitated, then blurted, “Does that mean I can see into his thoughts? Or his plans? Can I… can I look into his mind?”

The question hung sharp in the stillness of the room.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened, though something unreadable flickered behind it.

“No,” he said quietly. “Or rather, we do not know yet. There is no precedent for what you experienced. The pain in your scar, and the three incidents in which it occurred, are not enough for us to conclude that a psychic connection does indeed exist.”

“But the dreams....”

“May have been a warning,” Dumbledore finished gently. “Or may have been your own subconscious interpreting the pain. We simply do not have enough information.”

Harry swallowed, unsure whether he felt relieved or more unsettled.

Dumbledore stood, smoothing his robes.

“For now, Harry, you must focus on your lessons, your friends, and keeping your mind at peace. If something changes… rest assured, I will tell you.”

He offered a small smile.

“Now go, else you will miss the start of the match.”

Harry rose, feeling both dismissed and oddly reassured. “Thank you, sir.”

As he reached the doorway, Dumbledore added softly:

“And Harry… if your scar hurts again, or if you dream something you believe is important, come directly to me.”

Harry nodded and hurried down the spiral staircase, the sound of the distant cheering growing louder with each step.

The match was about to begin.