Toil and Trouble Chapter 16 : A year measured in magic - Part 2 of 3 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)
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May 2, 1994. The Great Hall, Hogwarts
The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall was washed in pale Monday morning light, a soft silver blue sky drifting above the tables. Before breakfast was served, it appeared that the Headmaster had something to announce.
Hermione Granger stood beside Professor McGonagall at the dais.
She was perfectly straight-backed, hands folded in front of her, chin lifted just enough to be dignified without seeming proud. If anyone had been close enough, they would have seen the faint tension in her fingers, the only betraying sign that she was not quite as composed as she appeared.
“Students,” Headmaster Dumbledore’s voice echoed gently through the Hall, magnified by magic, yet wrapped in warmth. He rose from his seat at the centre of the staff table, hands resting lightly on the polished oak. His blue eyes twinkled, though today, behind that familiar brightness, there was unmistakable seriousness. “It is not often that Hogwarts has cause to celebrate a feat of such significance. Indeed… it has been many decades since a student so young achieved what Miss Granger has done.”
A murmur rippled through the Hall, spreading like a breeze through tall wheat. Whispered words, youngest in decades… Ilvermorny… unprecedented…
Dumbledore inclined his head toward Hermione.
“By defeating every competitor at the Junior Inter-School Transfiguration Tournament,” he continued, “Miss Hermione Jean Granger has not only brought honour to herself, but to this school. She has demonstrated control, creativity, and a depth of magical understanding far beyond her years. I have no doubt that witches and wizards across the world will someday speak of this as merely her first notable achievement.”
Then, with a small flick of his wand, golden numbers burst into existence above the far end of the Hall, blazing into view beside the emerald banners of Slytherin.
+100 POINTS
The green hourglass in the corner swelled as shimmering emerald gems rained into it, chiming as they piled higher and higher.
A beat of stunned silence, and then the sound of clapping. Some of the students at the Slytherin tables had broken into reluctant applause. Esther Rosenthal, at the fifth year table, was the only one on her feet. Clapping with abandon, and a defiant smile. Many Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs too applauded Hermione. Her few friends were, of course, the loudest among them.
Hermione did not smile broadly. She simply exhaled slowly, then inclined her head the slightest degree in acknowledgment.
McGonagall gently nudged her towards Dumbledore, and he shook her hand. His smile held approval.
“Congratulations, Miss Granger.”
“Thank you, Headmaster,” she replied clearly.
Down at the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy sat perfectly still. His face betrayed nothing. No scowl, no smirk, not even disdain.
Inside his mind, however, a battle raged.
Lock it down. Seal it away.
He felt the first stirrings of it, the flicker of envy, the reluctant spark of awe, the same traitorous curiosity that had plagued him since Ilvermorny.
Was she really that good? How?
He crushed it instantly.
Walls up. Shields sealed.
He pulled his Occlumency around himself as he had been taught since childhood. Layer upon layer of ice-cold discipline, closing down corridors of thought, burying memories beneath silence and darkness. Hermione Granger was forced from his mind as if from a locked room.
Focus on exams. Focus on rank. Focus on victory.
Beside him, Pansy Parkinson scoffed and made a remark that Draco didn't even hear.
He gave a curt, noncommittal hum in response, if only to get her to drop it. His eyes were fixed on the wooden table at which he sat. Anything to avoid looking at the dias. And that face.
Above, Hermione stepped back beside McGonagall as Dumbledore resumed his seat. The applause slowly faded, replaced by a renewed bustle and whispered speculation.
May 2, 1994. The Hogwarts Library
The library at Hogwarts was at it's most crowded in the month of May. With the year end exams only a month away, most students would get a sudden urgency to study hard. But for Hermione Granger, this sense of urgency wasn't something that appeared only before exams. Rather, it was a part of who she was. Having lived a life of exceptional academic achievement, she could study non-stop, as though she were on mission to soak up as much knowledge as possible, just came naturally to her.
Hermione Granger sat hunched over one such table, her quill moving in a rapid, almost frantic rhythm across the parchment before her.
A thick, leather-bound tome lay open in front of her, its pages yellowed and warped with age, dense with tight, archaic script. She hardly noticed how the light had shifted since she had arrived at four-thirty. She hadn’t noticed that three full hours had bled quietly away. Her world had narrowed to ink, parchment, and the intricate web of theories and counter-theories described in the book.
She paused only to flip a page, then immediately bent forward again, scribbling notes in the margins of her own parchment, fingers darkened by ink. Her hand moved fast, precise, relentless.
Another chair scraped softly against stone.
Hermione barely looked up.
Parvati Patil, who had been preparing with her study group, lowered herself into the seat across from her, watching her for a moment with open concern. Hermione’s brow was furrowed in concentration, lips pressed into a thin, determined line. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes, a slight pallor to her skin.
“Do you ever take breaks?” Parvati asked quietly.
Hermione didn’t answer at once. She finished her sentence, added a small star beside it, and only then glanced up.
“I generally don’t need them,” she said, as though reciting a fact. “I’m used to studying for long hours.”
Parvati tilted her head slightly. “You know, you shouldn’t have to be used to it," she murmured. “You look exhausted, Hermione.”
Hermione blinked, as if noticing her own body for the first time.
“I’m fine. There’s just… so much to revise"
Parvati glanced at the open book, the tightly packed lines, the complicated diagrams. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself every night,” she said gently. “You need to rest your mind. Meditation helps, it really does. It slows the thoughts.”
Hermione’s quill stilled. She met Parvati’s eyes now, curiosity flickering through her usual intensity.
“I’ve never really tried it,” she admitted. "Besides, I'm not sure if I can spare the time..."
"Hermione,", Parvati interjected, "meditation not only reduces stress, it can also help you study better. It can enhance concentration, help you sleep better. Just try it, won't you?"
Hermione considered what her friend had said and asked, "could you teach me?"
A small smile touched Parvati’s face. “Of course. Tomorrow, after classes. We'll sit by the lake, and I'll show you how to practice Pranayama and Vipassana.”
Hermione hesitated. Then she gave the smallest nod. “Alright. Thanks, Parvati"
Parvati rose, gathering her own books. “We should head for dinner. The Great Hall closes in half an hour.”
“I’ll be right there,” Hermione said, already glancing back to her page.
Parvati lingered a second longer, then turned and walked away to rejoin her friends, the quiet echo of her footsteps fading between the shelves.
After a few minutes, Hermione too got to her feet and began gathering her quill and parchments. She took her book she'd been reading to the librarian on shift, so she could check it out.
Miss Avery's eyes flicked up as the book slid across the counter.
“Another one, Miss Granger?” she asked.
“I need it for further study,” Hermione replied.
The librarian flicked her wand and a series of glowing numbers appeared on the book's cover, before disappearing.
Hermione tucked it under her arm and turned toward the doors of the library, already thinking of the notes she would copy again tonight. In her dorm, long after the castle had fallen asleep.
May 2, 1994. Slytherin Tower
Hermione was halfway up the staircase to the first floor, when a sixth-year prefect’s voice rang out behind her.
“First years to your common room. All of you. Now.”
The word now was clipped, sharp.
Hermione froze for a heartbeat, her hand tightening around the strap of her satchel. Slowly, she turned and saw them standing there - three Slytherin Prefects. Two seventh-years, one sixth-year. She recognised then as Antonia Warrington, Hector Lawford and Joshua Baker. Their green and silver Prefect badges glinted under the torchlight.
Wordlessly, the first-years began to trickle into the spacious common room. They stood uncertainly in a cluster, surely wondering if something had happened.
Hermione caught Draco Malfoy glaring daggers at her, and chose to ignore him.
The prefects took their places near the fireplace, forming an unspoken wall of authority.
“You all know why you’re here?", began Warrington, her voice calm but edged with steel. “Today, Slytherin gained one hundred points.”
Her eyes shifted to Hermione.
“From one witch.”
A murmur moved through the group.
“Hermione Granger,” she continued, “has proven herself to be an extraordinary asset to House Slytherin. Winning an international competition, winning more points than some fourth years, and bringing us prestige.”
"She's a Mudblood!", exclaimed a boy with light brown hair, whom Hermione had never spoken to but whose scowl was well known to her. Leeland Miles. A wealthy half-blood. His voice carried all the disgust he felt for her.
Hector Lawford spoke up in a tone that was cool, almost clinical.
"We don't deny that she is. But, as Antonia said, she's also an asset to us. Which means that, like any valuable asset, she is now… protected by this House.”
Hermione felt heat rush to her cheeks. Despite being Prefects, none of them reprimanded Miles for using that slur.
And rhe way they talked about her... Asset. Valuable. Protected. As though she was an object. A useful tool.
“So, as of tonight,” Joshua Baker added, “no one is to target, harass, or undermine Hermione Granger. Not in public, and not in private.”
“What happened on Ostara,” said Lawford, “will Never. Happen. Again.” With a finality that the first years knew better than to question.
A few of the first-years shifted uncomfortably. One swallowed hard.
“If there are grievances,” Lawford went on, “you will bring them to the prefects. Privately. You will not damage her reputation or impair her effectiveness in any way.”
A tense silence filled the room.
Hermione’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. For a moment, she said nothing. Then she lifted her chin and stepped forward, meeting their eyes. Haughty and challenging.
“So this protection,” she said coolly, her voice steady but edged with something sharp, “is being extended only because I’m useful. Not because I’m seen as a human being.”
Her words hung in the air like a thrown blade.
One of the prefects scoffed softly.
“Don’t misunderstand your position, Granger,” Warrington replied. “Someone of your birth does not belong in Slytherin. That is a simple fact.”
A flicker of something like disgust, or perhaps irritation, crossed her eyes.
“But you are here. You're a Slytherin, and you are brilliant. So we are making the best of an… inconvenient reality.”
The other Prefects nodded along.
“Slytherin benefits from your brilliance. And in return, you gain safety. It is a practical arrangement.”, said Lawford.
Then, his gaze turned to the gathered students.
“Is this understood?”
Reluctantly, uneasily, the first-years murmured, “Yes.” One or two voices were barely more than breath.
The prefects gave a final, assessing glance around the room, then turned and left, their footsteps echoing along the stone floor and disappearing up the corridor.
Slowly, the group broke apart.
Most of the first years hurried away without looking at Hermione. She did catch Pansy Parkinson eyeing her with a mix of wariness and abhorrence. Her glamoured face glowing ever so faintly.
A few studied her with a strange new expression. Not quite respect, not quite resentment. Something mixed. Something uncertain.
Draco Malfoy wouldn't even look at her. Just stormed off towards the staircase.
Hermione remained standing there for a moment, alone by the dying fire. Her irritation simmered just beneath the surface, sharp and coiled.
An asset, they had called her. She hated it. It was dehumanisation of a different kind.
But as she climbed the staircase toward the dormitories, exhaustion settling into her bones, another thought followed close behind.
They fear me. And they need me.
That night, in the narrow bed of the Slytherin girls’ dormitory, Hermione stared up at the stone ceiling long after the others had fallen asleep.
McGonagall’s voice echoed faintly in her memory.
Make yourself invaluable to Slytherin.
So did her parents’.
Excellence is your armour.
Her jaw tightened ever so slightly.
Then I will become so formidable they can never question my right to exist here.
And with that thought burning steady in her chest, she finally closed her eyes.
May 3, 1994. The Black Lake
The evening air beside the Black Lake was cool enough to prickle against Hermione’s skin. The sun was transforming into that orange hue, that made the water look like a sheet of gold. The castle loomed behind them, half golden in the light, half shadow, as though watching with quiet approval.
Parvati had chosen a patch of ground where the grass had been flattened by countless students before them. She had laid a simple woollen shawl on the earth and motioned for Hermione to sit.
“Cross your legs,” she said. “Comfortable, but aligned. And straighten your back, Hermione. You don’t want to be slouching.”
Hermione folded herself down, her back instinctively straight, almost rigid. Discipline she knew. Stillness, however, was another matter.
“Rest your hands on your knees,” Parvati continued, demonstrating, turning her palms upward so they rested lightly, the tip of her thumb and forefinger touching, meking a soft circle. “This is the Chin Mudra. It helps with concentration.”
Hermione mirrored the gesture. It felt odd at first, but not unpleasant.
“Now close your eyes,” Parvati said.
Hermione did, and the world narrowed. The sound of the lake lapping at the shore grew louder. Somewhere a bird called. Far off, she could hear the echo of students’ voices from the grounds.
“First we’ll begin with pranayama,” Parvati explained. Her voice was calm, almost melodic. “The breath is the door to the mind, Hermione. If you cannot command the mind, command the breath.”
Hermione almost smiled at that. It sounded very much like magic theory.
“Inhale slowly through your nose for a count of four,” Parvati instructed. “Feel the air fill your abdomen first, then your chest. Don’t let your shoulders rise.”
Hermione drew in a careful breath. One… two… three… four. She felt her stomach expand, then her ribcage. She realised she normally breathed far too shallowly.
“Hold for four,” Parvati said. “Now exhale through your nose for four. Slowly. Like you’re emptying a goblet, not spilling it.”
Hermione released the breath, a faint tremor in her chest. Four counts out. Empty.
“Good. Now again. Inhale, four. Hold, four. Exhale, four.”
They continued the pattern. The world beyond her closed eyes seemed to soften, as though tilting further and further away. Hermione became acutely aware of the air moving inside her body, the rise and fall of her lungs, the faint flutter of her pulse at her throat.
“Now we’ll change the ratio,” Parvati said. “Inhale for four. Hold for four. Exhale for eight. This is called calming breath. It tells your body that it is safe.”
Hermione did as instructed, though the longer exhale burned slightly at first. Her brow tightened.
“Don’t strain,” Parvati said softly, sensing her struggle. “If eight is too much, make it six. There is no test here, Hermione. Just practice.”
Hermione loosened the tension in her jaw. She tried again, letting the breath flow instead of forcing it. Four in… four held… six out. Better. Smoother.
“That’s it,” Parvati encouraged. “Let the breath become like waves on the lake. It arrives, it stays, it leaves.”
They sat like that for several minutes, breath after breath. Hermione felt her thoughts trying to crowd in. Exams, books, incantations, the words of the Prefects, anxiety, anger, outrage - all of them fighting for purchase on the canvas of her mind. She tried to shove them away, and immediately felt her heart race again. The thoughts seemed to become even more overwhelming.
“Don’t fight the thoughts,” Parvati said, sensing Hermione’s distress, “Vipassana is not about forcing silence. It is about observing.”
“Observing… what?” Hermione murmured.
“Everything,” Parvati replied. “Your breath. Your body. Your thoughts. Imagine you are sitting on the edge of a road, watching cars pass by. You do not chase them. You do not stop them. You simply see them.”
Hermione went quiet again.
A thought rose. I don’t belong in Slytherin.
Another. They only value me because I’m useful.
Another. I must be the best of the best. I cannot fail.
As always, those thoughts had her by the throat. Remembering Parvati’s words, Hermione let them pass. Or at least she tried to. Not an easy task for a compulsive overthinker like her.
“I see them,” she whispered, half in wonder. “They just… go.”
“Its all right Hermione. You're doing fine.", Parvati said. “That is Vipassana. Clear seeing. When you look instead of react, the mind loses its power to wound you. Don't worry, you'll get better with time."
Hermione held on to Parvati’s words as if they were a raft atop turbulent waters. She tried to keep her breathing slow, deep and even.
“Now, shift your awareness to your body,” Parvati continued. “Start at the top of your head. Feel any sensation, warmth, tingling, heaviness. Then move slowly downward. Your forehead, eyes, jaw, neck…”
Hermione obeyed, mentally scanning herself, part by part. She noticed a faint ache between her eyebrows from too many hours of reading. Tightness in her shoulders. A flutter of nervous energy in her stomach.
“Don’t judge it,” Parvati reminded her. “Just notice. You are not the sensation. You are the one who sees the sensation.”
The simple truth of that stunned Hermione.
They sat in silence then, broken only by the gentle rhythm of the lake and their matched breathing. The mist began to burn away as the sun climbed higher, warmth brushing Hermione’s face.
When she finally opened her eyes, the world seemed sharper, brighter, yet somehow softer as well.
Parvati smiled at her. “See? Wasn't so bad, was it?"
A small laugh escaped Hermione. Real, unforced. “No. I just… felt like I could breathe for the first time in weeks.”
“That’s why we practise,” Parvati said. “Ten minutes every morning. Then a little longer if you can. The mind is like a muscle. Brilliant, yes, but it needs training too.”
"Parvati, where did you learn this?", Hermione asked.
"Oh my mother taught me. And she learned from her Guru", Parvati replied as the two witches rose to their feet.
Hermione glanced out over the lake, where the surface now shimmered like glass. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I think... this really will be helpful."
Parvati bumped her shoulder affectionately into Hermione’s. “Everyone needs someone to remind them how to be human. Even the cleverest witch in the castle.”
For a moment, Hermione didn’t feel like a prodigy, or a weapon, or an asset to be protected for use. She felt like a girl, sitting beside a friend, breathing in the clean air.
And for now, that was enough.
May 2, 1994. Slytherin Tower
The study room of the Slytherin first year floor was quiet. The torches along the stone walls burning low, their greenish flames barely stirring the shadows. Draco Malfoy sat alone at one of the long tables, his posture straight, quill placed precisely to the right of his parchment, wand just within reach of his dominant hand.
He had warned his friends not to bother him during his study time. And they had, wisely, kept their distance.
His Transfiguration text lay open in front of him, pages already marked in neat, angular handwriting. Beside it were his personal notes - perfectly aligned headings, underlined passages, diagrams drawn with careful, obsessive precision.
He read the same paragraph for the third time.
Normally, information came easily to him. His mind was sharp, disciplined, bred and trained for mastery. But tonight, it resisted him. The words blurred. The margins seemed too wide. The quiet too loud.
And then...
Her.
A flash of brown curls bent over parchment. Ink-stained fingertips. That stubborn furrow between her brows when she concentrated. The murmur in the Great Hall. The applause. The way the torchlight had caught on her skin that morning as she stood confidently beside Dumbledore.
A surge of irritation tightened his jaw.
No.
His fingers tightened around his quill.
He closed his eyes and drew in a controlled breath through his nose.
Occlude.
His mind built the walls he had been trained to summon since he was nine years old. A vast, cold corridor of black stone, smooth and impenetrable. Floor. Ceiling. No windows. No doors. No warmth. No distraction.
One by one, he shut every opening inside himself.
The image of the Mudblood resisted, like smoke finding its way through cracks.
Granger is irrelevant, he told himself firmly. An anomaly. A disturbance. She has no place here.
He imagined her name written in chalk on the stone wall… and with a flick of his thoughts, erased it completely.
Silence returned. Control returned.
Now, he returned to the page.
'Human Transfiguration under high concentration requires not only precise intent, but emotional nullification....'
Yes.
That, at least, he understood.
He leaned forward slightly, eyes sharpening, mind beginning to map the concepts as if they were spells layered in sequence. Intent. Visualization. Magical pathway focus.
He lifted his quill and began to re-write the core theory in his own words, engraving it into memory.
'All transfiguration is first performed upon the mind before it is performed upon the world.'
He repeated it internally, over and over, using his Occlumency skills to seal the words into place like enchanted ink.
With each breath, his awareness narrowed further until there was nothing but the parchment, the theory, the discipline of his own will.
Not Granger. Not doubt. Not unnatural curiosity.
Only precision. Only mastery. Only the necessity of being the best.
Another image tried to intrude. Her voice, that insufferably sure tone…
A controlled pulse of mental force blasted through his inner corridor, scattering the thought like ash in a gale.
You are weak for thinking of her. He heard his father's voice say.
His jaw flexed, with an effort, he cleared his mind. Then turned the page.
Hours passed without him noticing.
May 2, 1994. Gryffindor Tower
In the first year study room, Ron Weasley sat hunched over a stack of books that felt far larger than his actual chance of understanding them.
His Astronomy text lay open in front of him, the inked diagrams of constellations swimming before his eyes. Beneath each drawing were lines of dense explanation. Magical ratios, effects on Earth, the difference between internal and external change, ancient philosophies associated with them.
He’d read the same paragraph four times.
Still nothing.
Ron raked a hand through his hair and slumped back in his chair. His new wand, sleek willow with a unicorn hair core, rested beside his parchment. It worked perfectly. He’d tested it again and again. Spells came easily enough now. His Levitation Charm was passable, his Shield Charm solid, his Disarming Spell respectable.
Practical magic wasn’t the are of concern.
It was this.
The theory. The logic. The endless explanations that professors expected him to swallow and regurgitate like a trained Kneazle.
He glanced around. A few tables away, Dean was scribbling notes, jaw set in concentration. Two other students were whispering to each other in low, frantic voices. A few sat near the window comparing notes. They were all studying diligently.
He thought of Hermione and how this study material was probably child's play to her.
His stomach twisted.
She’ll top the year. Obviously.
She’d probably break some record while she was at it, just for variety.
And then, uninvited, another memory forced its way in.
History of Magic. The dusty classroom. Professor Marchen droning on about the Vanishment Proclamations of the 17th Century. His pale eyes had drifted to Ron.
“Mr Weasley… perhaps you can tell us what clause four of the 1632 agreement entailed?”
Every eye in the room had turned toward him.
Ron had opened his mouth, and nothing had come out. His mind had been an awful, empty blank. A roaring, embarrassed silence had filled the room.
Then, just behind him, that soft, smug drawl, “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. It allowed pureblood families to retain hereditary rights to pre-Conquest lands, provided loyalty to the Wizengamot was sworn within one lunar cycle.”
Draco Malfoy hadn’t even needed to stand. He hadn’t even been asked. He’d just… answered.
Perfectly. And he’d smirked.
Not even at Ron. More like at the entire class, as if it were obvious that the answer should come from him. And of course Slytherin had been awarded ten points.
Heat crept up Ron’s neck at the memory.
I looked like a complete idiot.
He gripped his quill so hard his knuckles went white.
“That blonde tosser,” he muttered under his breath. “Bet he doesn’t even have to study half as hard.”
But an unwelcome truth settled behind the anger. Malfoy did study. Probably obsessively. Probably with tutors and ancient family tomes and someone breathing down his neck to be the best, always the best.
And still, he’d made Ron feel small. Slow. Stupid.
Harry would be fine, Ron thought to himself as he put away the Astronomy text and opened his Transfiguration book.
Harry always was. He didn’t even take studying half as seriously, but when it came down to it, something in Harry just clicked into place at the crucial moment.
Dean was clever and disciplined. He worked hard.
Hermione was… well... Hermione.
Which left Ron, staring at a page of incomprehensible theory, feeling like the dullest knife in a very sharp drawer.
He swallowed, chest tight, and bent forward again, determined.
“All right,” he muttered. “Come on, Ron. Think.”
He read aloud in a whisper, forcing the words to mean something.
“Transfiguration is not merely change of form but change of essence, bound by the... the principle of equivalence…”
He paused, chewing on the quill.
Change of essence… not just shape…
So… not just waving your wand and hoping?
He glanced at his wand again, then at the inked drawing of a teacup morphing into a beetle.
It’s not about the teacup, he thought. It’s about convincing the magic it was never a teacup to begin with.
For a tiny moment, understanding flickered.
Then he recalled the advice that Hermione had given him. That he should make short notes in his own words. This was his mind would be able to retrieve the information later on.
He lowered the quill and began to write. In a way that he would remember.
“TRANSFIGURATION = change identity at a deep level. Think: what it is, not what it looks like.”
It wasn’t perfect. It was messy. But it was his.