Toil and Trouble Chapter 15 : The many shapes of brilliance - Part 1 of 3 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)

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February 1, 1994. The Black Lake

The lake was perfectly still.

Morning mist hovered just above the surface, thin as breath on glass, blurring the line between water and sky. The sun had not yet fully risen, only a pale wash of gold on the horizon. It was Imbolc and frost still glittered across the grounds, but along the edges of the lake and the paths near the greenhouses, the snow had begun to recede, as though the earth itself were remembering the idea of spring. Everything was hushed. No laughter, no chatter, no footsteps in the grass. Just the faint ripple of water against the shore, and the distant songs of birds waking.

Harry sat with his knees pulled to his chest, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, his breathing finally slowing after his run. The grass beneath him was cool, slightly wet with dew.

This was where he came to think.

Ron had decided to run an extra round today, something about “building stamina” that sounded more like stubborn pride than real ambition. Hermione had fallen a little behind, but she’d said she’d catch up with him soon.

For now, Harry was alone.

And his thoughts had wandered back to the Yule break.

To the small, warm sitting room at Grimmauld Place. To Sirius and Remus, the way the firelight had flickered over old tapestries and cracked walls… and the way their voices had carried a softness he hadn’t heard before.

“You’re carrying too much for someone your age, Harry.”

Remus had been sitting across from him, hands wrapped around a mug that had long since gone cold. He had that familiar, warm expression about him, but his eyes were concerned. Almost…sad.

Sirius, leaning against the wall beside the fireplace, scoffed at first. But not unkindly.

“You say that as if it’s voluntary, Moony,” he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. “The boy’s got half the wizarding world expecting him to be their saviour."

“Which is exactly my point,” Remus replied quietly. “He shouldn’t be carrying such burdens. Not at his age”

"But..." Harry spoke, "If I'd known what my dreams meant.... I could have done more."

Sirius let out a slow breath. When he spoke again, there was no rebellion in his voice, only honesty.

“You think James and Lily wanted that for you, Harry?” Sirius asked. “For you to spend your childhood worrying about Gringotts break-ins and fighting dark wizards?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“I remember the day you were born,” Sirius continued, more softly now. “James held you like you were made of starlight. He kept laughing, said you’d grow up to be the greatest Quidditch player Hogwarts had ever seen. Lily called him a fool. But she was smiling too. She wanted you to have scraped knees and ink-stained fingers. Not the weight of a generation on your shoulders".

Remus nodded. “You don’t owe the Order your youth, Harry. We didn’t fight so you could lose yours.”

“But I’ve seen things,” Harry insisted. “I had those dreams. And you two faced... Him. If I could have done more... helped in any way..."

“And you did, Little Prongs.” Sirius cut in, staring at him intensely. “We were able to stop Riddle because of the information you provided. But you're thirteen. You’re meant to argue with Ron and annoy Hermione and fall into things you definitely shouldn’t.”

A faint smile touched Remus’s lips. “Make beautiful, ordinary memories. Those are the ones that will keep you alive later.”

The fire crackled.

For a moment, neither man spoke. Then Sirius crouched in front of him, expression softening in a way only Harry ever seemed to see.

“Promise me something, Little Prongs,” he said. "For now… just try to be a boy. Just Harry. Bond with your friends. Laugh with them. Let yourself live.”

Harry swallowed, nodding slowly.

“I… I’ll try.”

Harry adjusted his legs, staring out at the lake, watching rings spread outward where something had just disturbed the surface.

Just Harry.

It sounded simple. Almost foolish.

And yet, how could he live as though nothing had happened after Remus and Sirius had faced such dangers.

Footsteps grew louder behind them, brushing through the damp grass.

Then Hermione appeared, slightly out of breath, hands on her knees for a moment as she tried to steady herself. Her cheeks were flushed from the morning cold and the exertion, curls escaping her braid. A second later, Ron came up beside her, looking annoyingly fine, as though he hadn’t run at all.

“Merlin,” Hermione puffed, straightening. “I know this helps build stamina but...?”

“Exercise builds strength” Ron said easily, barely breathing harder than usual.

“You ran an extra lap,” Harry pointed out.

Ron shrugged. “Felt like it.”

“Show off,” Hermione muttered, though there was a smile on her face.

Ron blinked, then made a dramatic show of swallowing. “My throat’s gone dry,” he announced.

Hermione rolled her eyes and reached into the pocket of her trousers. When she pulled out a small water bottle, Ron’s eyes lit up in pure delight.

“You’re brilliant, Hermione,” he grinned, snatching it from her and taking a long drink.

Harry leaned slightly towards him. “Hey! Bit for me?”

Ron lowered the bottle, shook it once… and frowned.

“Empty,” he said with fake innocence. “Shame, really.”

“Ronald!” Hermione laughed, swatting his arm. “Give me that, you absolute pig.”

“Worth it,” he replied cheerfully.

Harry just shook his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

And just like that, everything felt… normal.

Quiet. Simple.

Hermione glanced at the sky. “We better head back. If we want to make it to the Great Hall before eight, we’ve got to get cleaned up and changed."

“Blimey, you’re right,” Ron said. “McGonagall gets that look when we’re late.”

The three of them began to walk back towards the castle.

The Charms class during the third period, as the Slytherins filtered in behind the Gryffindors. Sunlight fell in pale ribbons through the tall arched windows, settling over rows of desks, each one crowned with a plain, sturdy brass lock.

Ron stopped short beside his seat and stared at the object dubiously. “That’s not ominous at all,” he murmured.

Hermione, already setting her wand neatly beside her parchment, leaned closer. “It’s only a practice lock. Professor Blair said on Friday that we are to learn the unlocking charm today.”

Professor Timothy Blair stood at the front of the room, slim and sharp eyed, with ash blond hair that fell just a little too long over his brow.

“Today,” he announced, “you will learn a basic unlocking charm. Alohomora. One of the most useful spells a witch or wizard can know."

His gaze skimmed the room.

“Observe.”

With a smooth flick of his wrist, Blair aimed his wand at the lock on his desk.

“Alohomora.”

Click.

The shackle sprang open.

A faint ripple of impressed murmurs spread through the classroom.

“Now you try.”

Wood scraped and robes rustled as everyone raised their wands.

Hermione’s brow furrowed in concentration.

“Alohomora.”

Click.

Her lock popped open immediately.

A few startled heads turned in her direction.

Dean's opened a heartbeat later. Then . Then Malfoy’s. Harry had to cast only twice before he unlocked his.

And then....Ron.

He inhaled, gripping his wand hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

“Aloh... a...lo.. ho...morra”

Sparks flew. Not gold, but angry red.

The lock let out a protesting squeak… and then snapped shut tighter than before.

There was a beat of silence, followed by a snort.

“Absolutely pathetic,” Draco Malfoy drawled from two rows over. “Is that even a wand, Weasley? Or did you just pick up a stick?”

Crabbe and Goyle laughed, deep and ugly.

“Maybe it only responds to real talent,” Blaise added smoothly.

Ron flushed a painful crimson and tried again.

“Alohomora!”

Nothing.

Hermione’s heart plunged.

“Leave it, Ron,” she whispered urgently. “Let the professor help.”

“Oh, let him,” Draco said. “This is entertaining.”

Harry was on his feet in an instant.

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

The room froze.

“Mr. Potter,” Professor Blair warned.

“They’re disrupting the class, sir.”

The professor’s gaze flicked to Draco’s lazy smirk.

“Ten points each from Slytherin and Gryffindor if I hear another sound from either of you.” he said sternly

Malfoy’s expression darkened, though he remained quiet.

Professor Blair then turned back to Ron, studying the chipped wand in his hand.

“Mr. Weasley,” he said, not unkindly, “this wand clearly hasn’t chosen you. It is resisting your magic. You can’t force allegiance.”

Ron looked devastated.

“It belonged to my brother,” he mumbled.

“Then it still belongs to him,” the teacher replied. “Until you have a wand that answers to you, your spellwork will suffer.”

Hermione stared at the wand, throat tight.

It wasn’t Ron’s fault. And yet he was the one left sitting there with an uncooperative tool and a roomful of whispers.

Her fingers curled slowly into a fist beneath the desk.

Imbolc was one of those occasions that Hogwarts used to promote inter-House harmony. In the late afternoon, after the final period of the school day, students would gather in the grounds, in small groups comprising of different Houses and even different years and, as per tradition, build effigies of the Goddess Brigid, using oats and rushes.

Harry, Ron and Hermione were joined by Dean Thomas and the Patil sisters. Even the usually standoffish Justin Finch-Fletchley had offered Hermione a gentle greeting before rejoining his group.

“The Goddess Brigid,” Parvati said reverently, lifting a bundle of pale reeds. “Keeper of fire, poetry, healing, fertility… honestly, an overachiever.”

“Sounds like our Hermione in divine form,” Padma said affectionately.

Hermione just smiled as she continued to work on their effigy.

She knelt beside Harry, fists already sorting and twisting the rushes with careful precision. With every graceful flick of her wand, strands bent and wove as though eager to obey her. Delicate braids formed for the arms. A circular crown took shape above the head.

“It won’t hold like that,” Harry murmured, watching closely.

“It will,” Hermione said softly, tracing her wand in a small silver curve. “I’m binding them with a charm used for spellwork scrolls. It’s meant to preserve intention.”

The reeds shimmered faintly… and settled.

“That's beautiful Hermione,” Dean said, genuinely in awe.

Hermione flushed, concentrating on shaping the figure’s hands, folding them as though in blessing over the earth.

Nearby, Ron let out a startled yelp.

“FRED! give that back!”

Fred Weasley shot past them, laughing, Ron’s woollen hat clutched in his hand like a prize trophy.

“Catch me, little brother!”

Ron bolted after him immediately.

“Should we help him?” Harry asked, a smile beginning to form on his lips.

Hermione shook her head. “I think he can manage."

She went quiet for a moment after that, eyes following the elegant slope of the effigy’s face. When she spoke again, her voice was softer.

“Harry… what Professor Blair said about Ron’s wand...."

He already knew what was coming.

“He’s right,” she continued carefully. “It’s not choosing him. Almost every spell he casts is either ineffective or goes wrong. He could really injure himself. I think... if his parents can't afford a new one, then we should buy one for him."

Harry exhaled slowly. “You're right. But if we just… buy him one, he’ll take it the wrong way. Ron’s proud, Hermione. He’d think we were pitying him.”

“I wouldn’t,” she said immediately. “I just want him safe. And pass his exams."

“I know.” He watched Ron in the distance, now wrestling with Fred. “I’ve got a better idea. His birthday’s on the first of March, right? We get him a new wand as a present. From both of us.”

Hermione turned to him. “Together?”

“Yeah. Split the cost. That way it won’t look… excessive. Just thoughtful.”

A slow smile blossomed across her face.

“That’s actually very clever of you, Harry.”

By dusk, the many effigies of Brigid stood complete. Tall, graceful, woven with care and intention. Students gathered around as teachers lit fires at the feet of the effigies. No destruction, only light, warmth, and renewal.

This was, of course, followed by a feast in the Great Hall.

The Great Hall had transformed into a celebration of life returning. Breads shaped like suns and spirals. Honeyed tarts. Soft cheeses. Buttered potatoes, steaming vegetable pies, and golden custards perfumed with citrus.

Hermione walked in with Ron and Harry.

“You’re eating with us,” Ron said decisively, guiding her toward the Gryffindor table.

Hermione took a seat between Harry and Ron.

A few Gryffindors threw dirty looks her way.

“Isn’t she in Slytherin?” one boy, Justin Archer asked frowning.

“Yeah… this is Hermione Granger”, Dean Thomas said evenly, before either Harry or could say anything, "and she'll be eating with us tonight."

“She's a Slytherin", came another voice, a girl with blonde hair, Alice Duncan looking at Hermione with suspicion, "why doesn't she sit with her lot?"

Katie Bell, seated across from her, looked up sharply.

“Oh shut it!” she said. “If Granger's nice to Gryffindors, then we should be nice to her. That’s the point of Imbolc, isn’t it? Harmony and new beginnings?”

A ripple of agreement followed.

The tension dissolved.

Hermione offered Katie a grateful, slightly shy smile. “Thank you.”

Katie winked. “You're very welcome here, Slytherin.”

Laughter, clinking goblets, warm food, and soft candlelight filled the air.

---

February 25, 1994. The Hogwarts Library

The library was usually almost in the early afternoon. It was the lunch hour and most students were in the Great Hall, eating with their friends, or roaming the grounds with them. Not Hermione Granger though. Although these days she usually sat at the Gryffindor table with Ron and Harry during lunch, today she'd made quick work of her meal and excused herself. As the transfiguration tournament approached, her anxiety mounted. She wanted to spend every spare minute in preparation for it.

Hermione sat at one of the long oak tables near the senior level transfiguration section, her world narrowed to the heavy tome before her.

Advanced Transfiguration : Fifth Year & Above

The corners of the book were worn. The spine had been repaired twice. It smelled faintly of old vellum and dust and something sharper.

Her brow furrowed as she read the paragraph again.

<i[ “One must not attempt the reversal of sentient properties without first understanding the subject's remaining echo of will…”

“That’s Fifth-Year curriculum.”

Hermione looked up, startled.

Percy Weasley stood there, hands folded neatly behind his back, Prefect’s badge catching the light. His expression was not disapproving — only faintly shocked and deeply curious.

“I know,” she said. “I thought I’d look ahead.”

“You don’t usually look ahead, Granger,” he replied dryly. “You usually devour what lies ahead and then ask for more.”

A small, pleased smile betrayed him.

Hermione coloured slightly. “I’m going to be representing Hogwarts at the Inter-School Junior Transfiguration Tournament in Ilvermorny. And I just want to be prepared,” she said, eyes returning to the page. “I don’t intend to embarrass the school.”

“You won’t,” Percy said at once. “If anything, you are setting an entirely new precedent for first years.”

He studied the book she had open, then glanced toward the back shelves.

“You know,” he added thoughtfully, “there’s a text that might interest you more than that one. It hasn’t been in the current curriculum for decades, but it’s considered… something of a hidden asset.”

Hermione’s head snapped up.

“Which one?”

Percy leaned in slightly, lowering his voice—though the library was quiet enough to hear a feather fall.

"A Practical Guide to Transitional Intent in Living-Vernacular Forms. It’s by Mogan Wilde,” Percy explained. “Brilliant mind. A bit forgotten now. Professor Williams, our transfiguration teacher once mentioned that he was... excessively advanced for his time.”

“And it’s in the library?” she asked, already half risen from her seat.

“In the old annex of the Transfiguration stacks,” Percy replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “Ordinarily, first years wouldn’t be allowed to read it. But… if you take it to Madam Pince and tell her you need it for the competition, I'm sure she'll allow you to check it out."

She laughed softly, “Percy, that would be great."

He smiled softly, a rare sight.

“Come on then, I'll show you where it is,” he said, gesturing for her to follow. “Let’s give you every possible advantage. For the honour of our school, naturally.”

“Yes, of course,” she said with a grin, they walked off together between the towering shelves.

---

February 26, 1994. The Black Lake

It was the weekend and the Castle and it's grounds were quiet. Most of the students had gone home to visit their families. Not Muggle-borns though. Their parents were in a world separate from this one and not connected to the Floo Network. The network didn't allow for inter-dimensional travel.

Hermione knew there was good reason for this. She understood why the magical world wanted to stay hidden. But still, she couldn’t help but feel a bit resentful that all the Purebloods and Half-bloods were able to see their parents every weekend if they wished, but Muggle-borns like her had to be separated from theirs for months at a stretch.

Harry and Ron had gone to the Burrow. Even Parvati and Padma were with their parents as the Patils owned a second home near Hogsmeade. And Hermione was at Hogwarts, with only her books for company.

As she sat by the lake, a book in her lap and the still water stretching before her, the weight of the coming tournament pressed at the edges of her thoughts. Ilvermorny, foreign spells, unfamiliar students, judges from schools she had only read about. It should have frightened her. Instead, she felt a strange sort of fire beneath her ribs. A need to prove something. To someone.

A sound reached her. Soft, but unmistakable. Voices. She turned her head slowly.

Three figures stood some distance away, half-shadowed by the trees near the edge of the grounds. Older students. Hermione’s stomach clenched.

Even from here she recognised them. Warren Mulciber, Lukas Bates. Two of the four bullies who had attacked her in the Slytherin Common Hall months earlier. The ones who had thought a Muggle-born in Slytherin an easy target.

They'd avoided her in the months following the punishment dealt to them by Professor Snape. However, they were not hiding their attention now.

The two of them muttered to each other. One folded their arms. Another tilted their head, watching her as one might watch an insect pinned helplessly under glass. And then, they smiled.

Hermione looked away. Her fingers curled around her wand. She could feel the pulse of magic inside her now. Controlled, coiled, ready. Not wild the way it had been at the beginning of the year. Focused. Sharpened by hours of study. Of practice. Of repeated near failures and stubborn corrections.

I could defend myself now, she thought. I know I could.

She had learnt binding charms strong enough to lock limbs. Stingers that left marks days old. Disarming spells so precise she could place them blindfolded.

And yet… something about their silence troubled her more than any open threat.

She rose slowly, not running as she refused to give them that satisfaction, and began walking towards the castle. She did not look back again as she crossed the grounds, but she could feel their eyes following her until the stone entryway swallowed her whole.

The library, she decided. Safe and quiet.

Hermione took a thick tome from the transfiguration section and brought it to the table closest to the librarian's desk. Taking comfort from mere proximity to an adult.

What are you planning? she wondered even as she tried to read.

Part of her whispered that she was being foolish. Paranoid. That fear made stories out of shadows. The logical part of her knew that she was no longer the vulnerable girl she'd been months earlier. That she was being mentored by Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, two formidable duelists.

I won’t play the victim again, she promised herself. If they try something… I’ll be ready.

And still, long after her eyes were on the page, she could see their smiles burning behind her eyelids like an ill omen.