Toil and Trouble Chapter 14 : Competition and Cooperation - Part 2 of 3 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)
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Harry burst out of the castle doors and sprinted across the grounds, the roar of the crowd swelling with every step. Scarlet and green banners snapped in the wind overhead. The stands seemed alive with excitement.
“Harry! Oi! Over here!”
Ron was standing on a bench, waving both arms like a man trying to signal a passing ship.
“Blimey, took you long enough,” Ron said, as Harry reached him, “What did Dumbledore want?”
“I’ll tell you after,” Harry said. “It wasn’t bad.”
Ron looked relieved. “Good. Come, sit."
Ss he sat, Harry’s gaze moved, and paused.
Hermione had just arrived. She climbed the Slytherin stands slowly, not looking particularly happy to be there. She scanned the crowd as though wishing she were anywhere else, then took a seat in the very back row, away from the other Juniors.
Malfoy and his followers were in the front, all smug smiles and loud confidence. Hermione didn’t even look at them.
Ron followed Harry’s gaze, “Oh! I'll bet Snape made her come.”
Harry nodded. “She did say, she wasn’t into Quidditch.”
Across the pitch, Hermione looked small and alone, but she sat up straighter, chin lifted, as if refusing to let the house swallow her.
The players burst onto the field, the crowd exploding into screams.
Madam Hooch, the school Quidditch coach, blew her whistle. The Gryffindor vs Slytherin Junior match began.
Harry and Ron leaned forward in excitement, but both boys kept glancing toward the Slytherin stands, thinking about how Hermione always tried to hide how much being shunned by her own House hurt her.
They looked at each other, and each knew exactly what the other was thinking.
After the match, win or lose, he and Ron were going to find her. Hermione would not be alone. Not anymore.
Fourteen brooms shot into the air, streaking across the pitch in a whirlwind of colour - scarlet vs. green, cheers vs. jeers. The stands shook with excitement as Madam Hooch released the balls.
The Bludgers rocketed free like cannonballs.
And the game exploded into motion.
“AND THEY’RE OFF!” Lee Jordan’s voice boomed over the commentary box. “Quaffle to GRYFFINDOR. That’s Parvati Patil with a beautiful early steal..."
Parvati, a Gryffindor chaser, leaned low over her broom, her thick black braided hair whipping behind her. She darted between two Slytherin Chasers, spun sharply, and passed cleanly to Alicia Spinnet.
“Fantastic manoeuvre by Patil! Slytherins didn’t even see her coming!”
Down in the stands, Padma who was sitting in the Ravenclaw stands, screamed herself hoarse, hands cupped around her mouth.
“GO, PARVATI! SHOW THEM!”
Hermione, sitting stiffly at the top of the Slytherin stands, watched with a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. For a moment she wondered if being in different houses had affected Parvati and Padma's relationship at all. It looked as though it hadn't.
Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint, third hear, broad shouldered and viciously competitive, snatched the Quaffle out of mid-air.
He tucked it under one elbow and shot upward like a green-arrowed missile.
“A brilliant intercept by Flint!” Lee cried. “Say what you will, but the bloke can fly. WATCH OUT!”
A Bludger screamed toward him.
Fred Weasley swung his bat with wicked precision, smacking it so hard the entire stadium winced.
The Bludger curved, clipped Flint’s broom, and forced him into a jagged swerve.
Flint snarled and threw the Quaffle to a teammate just before nearly colliding with a goalpost.
“Fred Weasley saves the day! Look at him grinning — someone take that bat away before he marries it!”
The Quaffle passed between Slytherin hands. Montague, then Pucey, before Parvati dove into their line again.
“INTERCEPT BY PARVATI! SHE’S ON FIRE TODAY!”
She barrel-rolled under Montague, snatched the Quaffle, and shot toward the Slytherin goal hoops, jaw set in determination.
The Keeper, Bletchley, tensed.
She faked left. Swerved right. Then shot.
“AND SHE SCORES! TEN–ZERO TO GRYFFINDOR!”
The Gryffindor stands erupted.
Hermione clapped once, before remembering where she was and quickly folding her hands in her lap.
A Bludger went whistling toward Alicia Spinnet. George Weasley intercepted it with a crack that echoed across the stadium.
Fred immediately took the rebound and sent it straight at Pucey.
The Slytherin Chaser squealed, actually squealed, and dove straight down to avoid it.
Lee Jordan howled with laughter.
“Pucey dives like a frightened duckling.... and Fred Weasley PUT HIM THERE!”
Flint bellowed something unprintable at his team. Hermione, watching from the Slytherin stands, saw several older students mutter approvingly despite themselves.
The score climbed: 20–10. Then 30–20. Then 40–30.
Both teams were playing aggressively.
A Bludger tore between Marcus Flint and a Gryffindor Chaser. Flint elbowed his way past, snarling, and snatched the Quaffle from midair. He charged the hoops like a battering ram, ignoring the second Bludger screaming toward him.
“GEORGE!” Wood roared.
George swooped out of nowhere and cracked the Bludger directly into Flint’s broad chest. The impact echoed around the pitch. Flint lost grip of the Quaffle and belted backward a metre.
The Quaffle fell straight into the waiting hands of another Gryffindor Chaser who sent it clean through the centre hoop.
But Slytherin struck back with vicious precision.
Their fastest Chaser, Amaris Selwyn, burst through the defence and scored twice in rapid succession, the second time after ramming her shoulder into Katie Bell and nearly knocking her off her broom.
The match burned hotter, faster, a blur of colour and shrieks and thundering wingbeats from the stands.
And all the while, far above them all, the Seekers traced their own lonely patterns through the sky.
Gryffindor’s Seeker, Owen Micheals, a fourth year with sharp eyes and a lean frame hovered near the clouds, pretending disinterest. His dark hair whipped around his face as his gaze flicked constantly, scanning for any flicker of gold.
Opposite him, Slytherin’s Seeker, Cassius Warrington, also a fourth year, smug and predatory, grinned across the distance before streaking off like an arrow.
Something glimmered near the stands.
Elliot’s pulse spiked.
There.
A flash of gold danced for a heartbeat near the Ravenclaw tower. The Snitch zipped away again, maddeningly fast.
He tilted his broom and dove. Below, Wood saw him drop and shouted, “SEEKER MOVING!”
Fred and George immediately changed tactics, pounding the Bludgers away from his path, clearing the skies like twin guardians.
Warrington had seen it too.
He dove after Elliot, face twisted with determination as they plummeted side by side, the wind howling past their ears. The golden Snitch buzzed wildly between them like a taunt, darting unpredictable zigs and zags.
They weaved through players mid-air, narrowly avoiding collisions. A Slytherin Beater swung at Elliot out of instinct.
George deflected the Bludger straight into the Beater’s ribs instead.
“Oi!” Fred laughed. “That one’s not yours!”
The Snitch shot downward toward the pitch, inches from the grass.
Crowd breath held. Silence swallowed the stands.
Elliot flattened to his broom, arm stretching. Warrington lunged. Their hands flashed out at the same time. But the Snitch made one final desperate swerve and shot upward again.
Elliot twisted in mid-air, and predicted the next flicker of wings. The Snitch zigged, and he knew. He surged upward, fingers snapping shut around cold, frantic metal. A blazing golden light shimmered through his fist.
Madam Hooch’s whistle split the air.
“THE SNITCH HAS BEEN CAUGHT! GRYFFINDOR WINS!”
A thunderclap of cheers exploded from the stands. Scarlet banners ignited into the air on magic alone. Fred and George whooped, tumbling in mid-air. Parvati threw her arms around Wood as they spiralled down to the grass in victory. Elliot hovered for a second, staring at the tiny fluttering ball in his palm as if it might vanish. Then he beamed.
Below, Harry felt something strange twist in his chest. It wasn't envy, not quite. Just a sharp, burning pull, like the sky meant something to him that he couldn’t yet name.
The roar of the crowd still thundered in Harry’s ears as he and Ron pushed through the thinning stream of students pouring from the stands. Scarves were still being waved, voices still hoarse from cheering, and someone was trying to start a victorious Gryffindor chant that kept dissolving into laughter.
“Did you see Wood’s face when Selwyn tried to nick the Quaffle from Parvati?” Ron said, practically bouncing as they walked. “He looked like he was going to headbutt her off her broom.”
“I thought Fred was going to take Flint’s head clean off,” Harry said, grinning.
They rounded the path near the greenhouses, and nearly collided with Hermione.
She was smiling, the faintest colour in her cheeks betrayed that she’d been running.
“Gryffindor won,” she said, “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Ron said, still a little breathless. “I mean....Parvati, Fred, George, Katie, Owen, Wood.... they were all brilliant.”
Hermione’s gaze drifted past them.
Parvati and Padma were approaching from the path that led up from the stands. Parvati’s scarlet gloves were tucked into her belt and Padma was talking animatedly, her hands moving in excited little arcs.
“Hermione!” Padma called, beaming. “Did you see her? She was incredible today!”
“I did,” Hermione said, stepping forward. She shook Parvati’s hand firmly. “Your manoeuvring through the hoops was flawless, Parvati."
Parvati laughed. “High praise, coming from you.”
Padma grinned at her sister. “Akka, I told you all that practice would pay off. Did you see her spin, Hermione? That spike near the west stands? I thought she was going to hit a Ravenclaw!”
Hermione chuckled, “I was fairly certain she wouldn’t.”
Harry and Ron exchanged a look.
“You… know each other?” Harry asked, surprised.
“We met in the library, Harry." Parvati said cheerfully, "Turns out we both have a penchant for Ancient Runes."
“And Hermione and I study together sometimes. She's been helping me with particularly cruel Arithmancy problems.” Padma added, “She terrifies them into behaving."
“That’s an exaggeration,” Hermione said rolling her eyes, “I simply read them properly.”
“See? Terrifying,” Padma confirmed.
Parvati gave Hermione another quick squeeze of the hand. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Hermione!”
"After classes,” Padma added. “Don’t forget, you promised to show me that focus charm.”
“I won’t forget,” Hermione replied.
The sisters turned and headed off down the path, still laughing, still talking rapidly about the match.
Ron stared after them, then slowly looked at Hermione.
“You’re… friends with the Patil sisters?”
"Yes", Hermione replied, "they're both very intelligent and I can talk to them easily."
“A bit odd not seeing Hagrid at the match.", Ron commented, "He always says he loves Quidditch.”
Hermione slowed just slightly.
Her lips parted, then pressed together again. She looked toward the trees at the edge of the grounds. The black mass of the forest looming in the distance.
“Today’s the day,” she said quietly.
“The day for what?” Harry asked.
“Fluffy,” Hermione said.
Realisation dawned.
“He’s being sent to the forest,” she continued, voice low now, measured. “To Crete.
By the time they reached Hagrid’s hut, the sky had begun to darken. Smoke curled lazily from the crooked chimney. The air smelled of earth, damp moss, and woodsmoke.
Hagrid stood on his doorstep, already dressed for travel, his heavy coat pulled tight around his broad frame.
In the yard, Fang lay stretched across the grass, his large head resting possessively against an even larger form. Fluffy, all three of his heads piled lazily atop one another.
“Evenin’,” Hagrid said gruffly.
“Evening, Hagrid,” Harry replied.
They stepped closer, kneeling by the massive creature. Hermione reached out first, her hand carefully finding the soft space beneath one of the dog’s three ears.
“We’ll miss you, Fluffy,” she murmured, stroking gently.
Ron followed her lead, scratching at the thick fur of his neck. “Try not to eat anyone in Greece, yeah?”
Fluffy tail thumped the ground as two of he mouths opened, tongued peaking out in a soft sort of smile.
Fang released a soft, whining sound, pushing his face more firmly against Fluffy’s side as if he already knew something was about to be taken away from him.
Hermione glanced back at Hagrid. “How will he be taken there, Hagrid?”
“Dumbledore’s arranged a Portkey,” Hagrid said, “Powerful one. Straight to the forests o’ Crete. Tall trees, dark caves… places he’ll like.”
Harry frowned. “But… why can’t he just stay here? He’s not hurting anyone.”
Hagrid’s face fell, his eyes shiny under the brim of his coat.
“Ministry won’t have it,” he said quietly. “And besides… there’s a whole lot o’ Cerberus down there. Packs. Family, y’know. They take care of their own kind. Fluffy’ll be safer with them than stuck on a school lawn.”
Hermione swallowed and nodded.
“Best if he’s asleep for the journey,” Hagrid added after a moment. “So ye best be quiet now.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flute. It looked no bigger than a twig in his enormous hands. He raised it to his lips, and a soft note slipped out.
Then another.
The tune that followed was nothing like the clumsy whistling they’d ever heard from him before. It was low and haunting, the kind of music that felt older than words. The air itself seemed to lean closer to listen.
Fluffy shifted. One head drooped sideways. Then another. All three heads yawned. Then, steady snoring followed, growing slower and heavier.
“All right,” Hagrid said, lowering the flute. “That’s it.”
Silence settled around them.
“Best be headin’ back before your dinner bell,” he said gently. “Don’t want you gettin’ caught out here.”
One by one, they placed their hands against Fluffy’s thick fur. Hermione pressed her palm flat to his chest, feeling the steady, enormous heartbeat beneath. Harry brushed his fingers carefully along a massive, slumbering snout. Ron gave one last pat to the heavy flank.
“Goodbye, Fluffy,” Harry whispered.
“Stay safe” Hermione added softly.
They turned and began walking back toward the castle.
December 14, 1993. Hogwarts Library
Hermione and Padma sat at the same long oak table, stacks of parchments and books spread between them. They worked in comfortable silence, the soft scratch of quills and the faint rustle of turning pages the only sounds between them.
Padma didn’t mind the quiet. Hermione didn’t either. Theirs was a rare sort of companionship, one that required no performance.
After several minutes, Hermione spoke, still looking down at her page. “Padma?”
“Yes?”
“Are you and Parvati… Purebloods?”
Padma’s quill paused for a moment, as she considered the question, then set it down carefully.
“That term doesn’t quite apply to us,” she said, “Our family comes from a long line of Tantriks - practitioners of Tantra, spiritual and ritualistic magic that has it's roots in Sanatan Dharma. You see, in our culture, magic was never divided the same way it was in Europe and North American communities. There wasn’t a system that labelled some as ‘pure’ and others as lesser.”
Hermione blinked, "so the concept of a Muggle-born doesn't exist in your culture?"
"No, not really.", Padma replied, "and that's mainly because the Indian subcontinent, like many regions in Asia does not have a history of what we call 'witch burning'."
"So Tantriks were not persecuted."
“There was some suffering,” Padma admitted quietly. “But it wasn’t from fears of magic as something strange or evil. Some Tantriks were persecuted in the past, yes, but they were oppressed by foreign invaders. Tantriks were treated no different from those who had never practiced Tantra."
Hermione absorbed that in silence.
“Can anyone learn it?” she asked after a moment. “Tantra, I mean.”
Padma gave a small smile. “In theory, yes. It is taught in Gurukuls, freely, to those who seek it. But in practice… very few are able to go beyond the initial stages. Most people stop long before that, even if they begin.”
“Why?” Hermione asked, fascinated.
“Because it’s not about intellect alone,” Padma replied. “It requires discipline, balance, endurance… and a certain kind of inner openness. Tantriks don’t announce themselves to the world. They live among ordinary people. But they have ways of sensing who carries the potential. And when they find someone who has those innate qualities, they might invite them to learn."
Hermione’s fingers tightened slightly around her quill. This was certainly a refreshing way of looking at magic.
“My parents are both nuclear scientists,” Padma added, “Very logical people. But they also practise Tantra. For them, the physical and metaphysical worlds are not separate things… just different layers of the same truth.”
Hermione let out a thoughtful breath. “That’s… incredible.”
Padma lowered her voice even further. “My mother always said the ancient mantras, repeated for thousands of years, left something behind in the land and in the people. Not protection like a shield charm… but a kind of inherited strength. Something woven into the spirit. It's one of the reason my people were able to survive a thousand years of foreign occupation and all the cruelties that came with it."
Hermione nodded slowly, as if some private part of her understood exactly what Padma meant.
“Would you be able to bring me something to read?” she asked softly. “About Tantra?”
Padma thought her for a moment, then she smiled.
“I think so. I can bring you a copy of the Atharva Veda. A translation, of course. But the essence will still be there.”
Hermione’s face brightened, almost reverently. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Padma.”
"Anytime. I think I'll be able to bring it with me when I come back after Yule break."
Padma dipped her quill back into her ink and returned to her work. A moment later, Hermione did the same.
December 21, 1993. Hogwarts Castle
It was the morning of the twenty first of December, and Hogwarts had taken on that strange, in-between feel. It was half anticipation, half escape. First, second and third years were ready to go home for Yule. Fourth years and above would go the day after, most of them, at least.
Hermione made her way toward the Academic Wing, the strap of her satchel biting slightly into her shoulder. It bulged with books she fully intended to read over the twelve day long break.
She had just rounded the corner beyond the marble staircase when she spotted Esther Rosenthal approaching from the opposite end of the corridor.
Esther, a fifth-year Slytherin Prefect, always carried herself with an effortless sort of grace. Her dark curls were pulled into a loose knot today, and in her arms was a massive, brightly coloured box, almost as wide as her torso.
“Hermione,” Esther greeted, smiling. “Heading home, are you?”
“Hello, Esther. Yes, the carriages will leave in about thirty minutes.” Hermione replied warmly. “What on earth are you carrying?”
Esther shifted the box slightly, hugging it closer. “My gown. For the Yule Ball tonight. You know anout that, right? ”
Hermione blinked. “The Yule Ball… of course. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History. It’s only for fourth years and above, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Esther said. “This will be my second time attending.”
“Is it… an important event?” Hermione asked, curiosity flickering.
Esther huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s certainly entertaining. But yes, for some families, it’s quite important. Purebloods, wealthy half-bloods… they often attend to observe. Who their children speak with. Who they dance with. Who they choose to be seen beside.”
Hermione’s brows drew together. “That sounds a bit like a… social marketplace.”
“In some ways, it is.” Esther’s tone softened. “There have been introductions at Yule Balls that ended in formal engagements."
“Even fourth years? Most of them are not even of age yet,” Hermione pointed out, surprised.
“Seventeen is when we’re allowed to marry,” Esther said. “But it’s rare for anyone to actually do it before graduating. Usually it’s just… positioning. Observation. Strategy.” She rolled her eyes almost playfully. “Very romantic, isn’t it?”
Hermione gave a small laugh. “Utterly.”
“Well,” Esther said, shifting the box again, her smile returning, “wish me luck. Perhaps I’ll manage to snag myself a scandalously rich fiancé.”
Hermione’s laughter rang out in the corridor this time. “Good luck then, Esther. Truly.”
Esther winked at her and continued on her way.
Hermione watched for a moment, thinking about ballrooms, expectations, alliances, and the invisible nets that seemed to weave themselves around wizarding families. Then she adjusted her satchel, squared her shoulders, and went on toward the Academic Wing.
The circular stair to the fifth-floor Gryffindor dormitories curved upward in a tight, familiar spiral, the walls glowing with torchlight as Harry, Ron, Fred, and George climbed two at a time.
“Percy!” Ron called as they reached the landing. He knocked on the door bearing his brother’s name. “We’re about to take the Floo home. Just wanted to let you know!”
There was no answer.
Fred rapped his knuckles again, louder this time. “Oh, come on, Perce. We promise not to hex your hair. Much.”
The door remained firmly shut, but a moment later, it creaked open just enough for a fifth-year Gryffindor to peer out, eyeing the twins suspiciously before glancing down the corridor.
“He’s not seeing anyone,” the boy muttered. “He’s getting ready for the Yule Ball. Wouldn’t even let me back in at first, and it’s my room. Says he won’t risk you two ruining his dress robes.”
“Our reputation precedes us,” George said, sounding almost proud.
From behind the door, Percy’s tight, exasperated voice rang out. “You had best be on your way! I have neither the time nor the patience for your buffoonery. Especially today!”
Fred clapped a hand to his chest, wounded. “Buffoonery? Honestly. After all we’ve done for his character development.”
He leaned closer to the door. “Don’t worry, Perce. You’ll surely be the Belle of the Ball!”
There was a strangled, indignant sound from the other side, and the bolt slid sharply into place.
The four of them turned away, snickering as they headed down the corridor.
“Smart move, that,” George said, shaking his head. “He’s finally learned the best defence against us is a locked door.”
“Tragic, really,” Fred added. “He’s growing up.”
The Great Hall had taken on a strange, half empty feel. One could really appreciate its enormity when nearly all of the long and round tables were deserted. At one end a small cluster of Muggle-born students, twenty-eight in total, sat with their bags, waiting to be taken to the carriages that would take to Platform 9&3/4, the magical train station that overlapped King's Cross. Snow whispered against the enchanted ceiling, and the usual chatter of the hall felt muted, as if the castle itself knew it was about to be alone for a while.
Hermione sat with her bag in her arms. She looked up when she heard her name.
“Hermione! Thought we’d find you here,” Harry said, walking over with Ron beside him. Both of them carried small travel bags, coats already on.
Ron glanced around at the gathered students. “Feels odd, doesn’t it? Like someone’s nicked half the castle while we weren’t looking.”
“It’s the quiet before Fred and George set the Burrow on fire,” Hermione replied with a chuckle.
“That’s just the first day,” Ron corrected.
They smiled at each other, the familiarity of it softening the goodbye that hung, unspoken, between them.
“So… we were about to go to the fireplaces. I suppose you’re taking the train,” Ron said.
"Yeah... my parents are all the way across the Fold.", said Hermione.
Ron shifted his bag on his shoulder. “Mum would’ve loved to have you at the Burrow, you know” he said, a little rushed. “For a few days, at least. She already asked about you. Again.”
Hermione’s expression warmed. “That’s lovely of her… but I promised to stay with my parents the whole break. They’re taking me to France this year.”
“France?” Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “For Christmas?"
"Blimey!", exclaimed Ron, "The only trips our family is taking is to aunt Muriel's house. And we all dread those."
Hermione laughed softly. “I’ll bring you back something. A book,” she added, seeing his hopeful expression. “Not a baguette.”
“Rude,” Ron said, feigning offence.
“Have a wonderful break,” Hermione said gently. “Both of you.”
Harry smiled at her, bit more serious now. “Have a good Christmas, Hermione.”
"Yeah... and have fun doing that... Christmas tree thing Muggles do."
Hermione laughed, "I better be off then. See you."
She then joined the line that had formed, as Deputy Headmistress McGonagall took down the names of those set to ride the carriages.
December 21, 1993. Hadley Wood
Hadley Wood lay still beneath the pale winter sky, frost dusting the bare branches like a fragile lace. Right next to that big house which always seemed vacant, were Rose and Hugo Granger waiting for their daughter to arrive. At a distance a Bentley was parked, surely belonging to the Finch-Fletchleys.
“Nearly three months,” Rose murmured, her gaze fixed on the empty space between the trees where nothing seemed to exist at all.
“She’ll be fine,” Hugo replied, though his own eyes betrayed him. “She’s tough.”
The air shimmered. At first it was only a faint distortion, like heat rising from a summer road. Then the invisible line in front of them trembled, and the world folded in on itself. Light warped. Space bent.
And out of thin air stepped Hermione and Justin Finch-Fletchley. They were accompanied by an adult wizard in deep green Ministry robes, the silver crest on his chest catching the light. He gave a polite, professional nod to both families.
“Granger. Finch-Fletchley. Safe arrival confirmed,” he said quietly, already stepping backward into the thinning ripple. In another moment, the Fold sealed shut behind him, the air smoothing as if it had never been disturbed.
For a heartbeat, there was only silence.
Then Rose gasped. “Hermione!”
Hermione’s composure cracked into a bright smile. “Mum...Dad!” She crossed the few steps between them quickly, and suddenly Rose had her in a fierce embrace, leaving Hermione a bit surprised. It was rather unusual of her mother to make such displays of affection.
“Oh darling… look at you…” she breathed.
Hugo rested a hand on her shoulder, his sternness softened by relief. “We've missed you sweetheart. For three whole months that world kept you to itself."
“I’ve written nearly every week, Dad,” she countered gently, looking up at him.
“Letters are not the same as you,” Rose said, holding her at arm’s length now, eyes scanning her face as if to count every freckle.
Hermione then turned to Justin, after shaking hands with him and exchanging a very formal, "have a wonderful holiday", both kids rode away with their respective parents.