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

Source

December 25, 1993. Private Drive

Number Four, Privet Drive was wrapped in soft gold that evening, every window glowing in quiet celebration of Christmas. A neat wreath hung on the Dursleys’ front door. Petunia’s doing, of course. And the scent of roast vegetables and honeyed ham drifted all the way down the tidy little path.

Inside, the dining table had been set with unusual care. Not extravagant, but warm. Proper china, polished cutlery, Christmas crackers waiting between the plates. For once, the house did not feel like a place that merely tolerated Harry’s existence. It almost felt as though it had prepared for him. As if the person responsible for it had missed him.

Harry sat at the table, a little stiff in his chair, unsure of what version of the evening he was meant to be experiencing.

Petunia moved around the table, adjusting things that didn’t need adjusting. Vernon, in a festive jumper that strained slightly over his stomach, poured gravy over his meat.

“Well, come on then,” he said, attempting cheer. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

Dudley, now old enough for his childish roundness to have settled into something less awkward, was practically vibrating in his seat. His eyes kept flickering to Harry, curiosity burning in them.

“Harry, mum tells me you go to a magical school now” he blurted out, unable to hold it in any longer. “Have you learned any magic yet?"

“Dudley!”

Petunia’s voice cracked through the air, sharp as a snapped twig.

Both boys froze.

She placed the serving spoon down a little too forcefully. “You know very well that we do not speak of such things in this house.” Her jaw clenched, eyes fixed firmly on the bowl of potatoes as though it had offended her. “We are having a normal Christmas dinner. And we will keep it that way.”

Dudley shrank slightly, muttering, “Sorry, Mum,” and turned his attention back to his plate.

An uncomfortable hush followed.

Harry glanced down at his own plate, fingers tightening around his fork. He wasn’t angry, not exactly. He’d known this would happen. Petunia wasn’t cruel... but he understood now that she was wounded. The word magic was a ghost in this house, and nobody dared acknowledge it.

Vernon cleared his throat. “So then,” he said, trying to normalise the atmosphere, "you've been well boy? Those two blokes taking care of you?"

It was the safest question he could ask.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied easily. “I'm doing just fine. And Remus and Sirius are wonderful. They send their regards."

"Hmmm..." Vernon grunted as he chewed.

And so they ate, to the beat of awkward but polite small talk.

The house was silent when Harry stepped into the hallway, lit only by the thin stripe of moonlight slipping through the landing window and a small light bulb. Floorboards creaked faintly under his feet. He was halfway to the bathroom when the door opened and Dudley emerged, blinking in the low light.

For a moment, they simply stared at one another.

Harry lifted a finger to his lips. “Do you… want to know about my school?” he whispered.

Dudley’s face brightened instantly. He nodded, so eager it was almost violent.

“Go wait in my room,” Harry murmured. “I’ll be a minute.”

When Harry returned, Dudley was sitting on the edge of his bed, bolt upright, hands planted on his knees like he was waiting for a performance to begin.

“All right... so, the school is called Hogwarts,” Harry began quietly, sinking onto the opposite side of the bed. “It’s not like any school here. It’s a huge castle. Huge! Towers, staircases that move on their own, hidden rooms… and there’s a lake and a forest just outside. And greenhouses full of magical plants.”

Dudley’s eyes widened with every word. "Is the Castle scary?"

Harry thought for a second, "well... not really. Although it has some dark corridors you shouldn't go into at night."

Harry went on. “We learn spells. Simple ones at first. How to levitate things, how to repair broken objects, how to make light from the tip of your wand…”

“Blimey,” Dudley breathed. He looked at Harry as if he’d never really seen him before.

"Yeah, it's great. And we learn to make potions. And there's Transfiguration. It's how we learn to transform objects."

"Transform objects?", Dudley asked, still bewildered.

"Yeah, at first we learn simple things like turning matchsticks into needles. I have a friend, her name's Hermione Granger... she's really good at it. Like... She can turn glass goblets into glass animals and even make them move a bit."

"Wicked!", Dudley exclaimed.

“And there’s Quidditch,” Harry added, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s a game played on flying broomsticks. Two teams, hoops in the air, and a tiny golden ball called the Snitch that flies around on its own. If your Seeker catches it, the game ends.”

Dudley gave a soft, amazed laugh. “You fly?”

“Im not old enough to fly yet,” Harry admitted, "You have to be fourteen to get your flying licence. But I'm gonna try out for the Gryffindor Junior team next year."

"Griffin... what?"

"Oh that's the House I'm in", Harry told him, "there's four Houses. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. You know on the first day, our House's captain was chosen by this huge lion made of fire. It was the coolest thing I've ever seen."

“That’s… brilliant,” he whispered, his eyes shone. "You're lucky Harry. Tell me more!"

And in that quiet, between four plain walls in Privet Drive, magic finally had a place where it was spoken in wonder instead of fear.

---

December 28, 1993. Nice, France

Nice was softenend by the season. Cool but not cold, kissed by a pale gold sun that shimmered against the Mediterranean. The sea stretched out in endless, liquid blue, flecked with white where waves kissed the pebbled shore. Palm trees lined the Promenade des Anglais, their fronds whispering in the breeze, and pastel buildings leaned gently into the sky as if basking in their own beauty. Everything here felt unhurried, almost drowsy with charm.

Hermione walked beside her mother through a narrow side street dotted with small boutiques and flower stalls. Bougainvillea spilled over stone walls in bursts of purple and pink. The air smelled faintly of salt and citrus. Tourists murmured in a dozen different languages, their footsteps echoing softly on the cobbled paths.

“So,” Rose said lightly, adjusting the strap of her handbag. “Aren’t you glad we came to Nice instead of just staying in Paris?”

“Yes, I am actually. It’s beautiful, Mum,” Hermione replied. And it was true. Yet there was something distant in her voice, as though the scenery could not quite reach her.

They spoke of small things after that. The architecture. The weather. The food. Words passed between them, polite and empty, like shells washed smooth by years of waves. Mother and daughter had once talked for hours about books and theories and experiments. Now, there seemed to be an invisible wall of silence between them, made not of lack of love, but of different worlds.

They eventually ducked into a small café tucked between two pale yellow buildings. Round iron tables dotted the pavement beneath a striped awning. Hermione and Rose took a seat near the edge, where they could look out at the sea. A serveur placed two cups of steaming coffee before them, the rich scent coiling into the cool air.

As Hermione lifted her cup, her thoughts slid unwillingly backward to the moment only days earlier when she had tried, haltingly, to share something important.

There’s a Transfiguration competition coming up, she had explained, eyes bright with quiet pride. I’ve been practicing every day.

Her parents had exchanged a look. Uncertain, baffled. Hugo had frowned slightly.

“A Transfiguration competition?” he’d repeated. “What exactly does that involve, darling?”

She had explained, of course. Objects becoming something else, the precision, the theory, the discipline. Her voice had filled with passion, with academic fire.

But neither of them had truly understood.

Now, in the quiet of the café, Rose studied her over the rim of her cup. “Have you given any thought to what you’ll do after… all of this?” she asked carefully. “After you finish with this magic business, I mean.”

Hermione froze, her fingers tightening slightly around the porcelain.

“I haven’t, really,” she admitted after a moment. “It’s a lot of work. My classes and studies.” She offered a small, strained smile. “It takes up most of my time.”

“Well, that’s only natural,” Rose said, as if dismissing the matter. “But you won’t be there forever, my dear. You’ll graduate at twenty, and then you can come home. Resume your real education.” Her voice was warm, hopeful. “Finish your Master’s properly, Hermione. You had such promise.”

There it was. A line drawn neatly across their lives.

Hermione’s gaze drifted from her mother’s earnest expression to the sunlit sea, shimmering and vast. Somewhere far away lay Hogwarts. The Great Hall. Spellbooks. Wandlight. A world that had, slowly and inexorably, become hers.

And yet, to Dr. Rose Granger, all of it was a detour. A curious, inconvenient chapter that would eventually close.

In the sudden quiet between them, Hermione felt the uncomfortable truth settle into her bones. One day, she would have to choose. And her mother had already chosen for her.

---

January 21, 1994. Hogwarts

The Lower Grand Atrium had never felt so alive.

The vaulted ceiling shimmered with a pale, enchanted light, casting long, silvered beams down onto the polished onyx floor. Between the towering marble pillars, tiered benches had been raised, and those benches now overflowed with students in House colours—scarlet, gold, blue, bronze, green and silver—fluttering like banners in the soft, circulating air.

At the centre of the hall stood four marble plinths, arranged in a perfect square.

Each one bore an engraved crest. A lion, a badger, an eagle, and a serpent.

Above them hung a faintly glowing circle of runes, marking the boundary of the competition space.

On the raised judge’s platform sat Professor McGonagall, Head of the Transfiguration Department. Beside her, sat Professor Flitwick, Head of the Charms Department.

A hush rippled through the Atrium as Professor McGonagall rose.

“Welcome,” she said, her voice clear and resonant against the stone. “To this year’s Inter-House Junior Transfiguration Competition. Competitors will perform three transformations - object to object, partial animation, and finally, a creative free-form transfiguration of your choosing. Precision, stability, and ingenuity will be judged.”

Hermione’s posture was perfect. Shoulders back. Wand steady at her side. Her brown curls had been pulled into a braid. She didn’t look at the crowd. She looked only at the object resting before her: a simple brass goblet.

To her left, Parvati Patil gave her a small, confident smile, eyes warm but sharp with determination.

To her right, Cedric Diggory, a third year Hufflepuff, stood relaxed but focused, sleeves rolled slightly, wand already in hand.

At the Ravenclaw plinth, was Charles Anvil a fourth year with a hungry intensity in his eyes.

“Begin,” said McGonagall.

The first Round was Object to Object.

Wands moved in near unison.

Parvati’s was the first to finish. The goblet before her melted, reshaped, brightened, and became a graceful silver oil lamp. A ripple of appreciation moved through the crowd.

“Elegant,” murmured Flitwick, scribbling something.

Cedric followed, transforming his goblet into a badger shaped inkwell, so charmingly detailed that when he touched its nose, it blinked and twitched its whiskers.

A ripple of laughter and applause followed.

Charles’s goblet fractured into light and crystal, reforming into a miniature astrolabe, rings spinning softly, etched with tiny stars. It glowed, though it trembled faintly, struggling to maintain its orbit.

Then there was Hermione Granger, representing House Slytherin.

She pointed her wand at the goblet, closed her eyes and felt its weight and structure.

She lifted her wand.

Her movement was slow, fluid. Certain.

The glass seemed to soften, growing pale. Petals unfurled in silence. Layer upon delicate layer blossomed open.

When she withdrew her hand, a white lotus flower rested upon the stone, its petals so thin the light seemed to pass through them. It shifted gently, as though stirred by some invisible breeze.

Even the Slytherins couldn't help by applaud.

McGonagall’s mouth tightened. Not in displeasure. “Remarkable,” she said, voice low. “Nine out of ten for precision.”

Round two was partial animation.

The goblets had vanished. In their place lay blocks of pale wood.

“Partial life” McGonagall reminded them. “Proceed.”

Parvati’s transformation was warm and gentle, as her block shrank and curved, reshaping into a small wooden sparrow. Its wings were wood, but its chest rose and fell with faint, living breath.

Cedric created a turtle, shell textured with wood grain, eyes bright and blinking, mouth opening and closing slowly.

Charles, formed a serpentine staff. Its head hissed, tongue flicking in and out, crystalline eyes flashing. Rather unexpected for a Ravenclaw.

The crowd murmured, thrilled.

Then Hermione moved.

The wood in front of her shifted, narrowing, stretching, fur ghosting over the surface. Limbs formed. A muzzle. Soft ears.

A fox now stood on her plinth.

Its front half was living flesh. Its back half remained carved wood, frozen in mid-stride. Its amber eyes lifted slowly… and met Hermione’s.

They locked there. The fox lowered its head, and bowed.

A shiver ran through the audience.

Parvati stared at it. Then at Hermione.

The judges took note and quietly assigned points.

Then came the final round – Creative Free Transfiguration.

“This,” announced McGonagall, “will determine the winner. You may attempt whatever you wish, within the bounds of appropriate magic.”

The Atrium seemed to lean forward.

Parvati conjured a floating garden - curling vines spiralled upward, dotted with glowing blossoms in shades of red and gold, drifting in a warm, perfumed cloud.

Cedric formed a working beehive, tiny bees buzzing in perfect formation.

Charles traced the stars in the air and brought forth a shimmering constellation map, points of light linked with silver threads, a moving image of the night sky over Hogwarts.

Each drew gasps of admiration.

Hermione, however, stood utterly still. Her eyes slid shut.

She thought of stone. Of water. Of sky. Of trees. Of towers cutting through mist.

She then raised her wand...

The stone of her plinth blurred, expanded and took shape.

Rising from it was a miniature Hogwarts. Complete and alive.

The Black Lake shimmered beside it, ripples catching tiny reflections of the enchanted ceiling. The Forbidden Forest swayed, leaves whispering. The towers stood proud. In one window, a pinprick of green Slytherin light flickered warm and aware. A tiny owl lift into the air, circling the model before landing on one of the towers.

Silence gripped the hall.

Then came the first clap. Then another. And soon, the entire Atrium broke into thunder.

Even Professor Flitwick was on his feet.

McGonagall rose more slowly.

“There is no deliberation necessary,” she said, her voice filled with restrained force. “The winner of the Inter-House Junior Transfiguration Competition is Miss Hermione Granger of Slytherin.”

Cheers erupted. Slytherin applause thundered through the Atrium like a storm.

Parvati crossed the boundary without hesitation and embraced Hermione fiercely.

“You’re terrifying,” she murmured with a breathless laugh. “I think I adore you.”

“You were incredible, Parvati.” Hermione replied, sincere. "I really enjoyed competing with you."

Her eyes drifted back to her tiny living Hogwarts.

And beneath the triumph, beneath the noise and the praise, another voice echoed faintly in her mind.

When you are done with this magic business…

Hermione’s jaw tightened just slightly. Her castle glowed on, made alive by her magic.

And she understood, with quiet, unshakable certainty, that she would never be done.