Toil and Trouble Chapter 16 : A year measured in magic - Part 3 of 3 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)

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June 29, 1994. The Great Hall, Hogwarts

The Great Hall held a charged and expectant stillness that morning, as though the castle itself understood the weight of the moment.

Above, the enchanted ceiling was the pale, pearl-grey of a summer sky, thin clouds strewn lightly across it like brushstrokes on silk. Four long tables stretch down the length of the Hall, students seated according to House, dressed in their neatest robes. Excitement shimmered in low whispers, parchment shuffled, quills fidgeted, anxious hands smoothed fabric under the weight of anticipation.

It was Results Day at Hogwarts.

At the High Table sat the Heads of Departments, flanked by robed members of the Board of Governors. Lucius Malfoy was impossible to miss. His pale hands folded elegantly, silver hair pulled back flawlessly, cane handle gleaming and eyes observing the Hall with cool, evaluative interest.

A quiet fell, spreading outward until only the flicker of torches and the flutter of the banners remained.

Albus Dumbledore rose.

“Another year draws to a close,” he said gently, his voice carrying through the Hall like a warm current. “And with it, another chapter in the ever unfolding story that is Hogwarts. Today, we honour not only academic excellence, but discipline, talent, dedication, and the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake.”

With a slight flick of his wand, and massive rolls of parchment drifted up from the Head Table, gliding gracefully into the air like pale birds. One by one, they floated down to their intended hands.

Hermione watched hers approach, her heart beating with a peculiar, steady rhythm. Not fear, but a strange, hushed expectation. The parchment brushed the tips of her fingers and settled there.

Before she could look at it, Dumbledore spoke again.

“We shall first recognise the top five performers of each year. Let us begin with the First Year class.”

The Hall leaned forward as if drawn on an invisible thread.

“In fifth place… Mr Dean Thomas, of House Gryffindor.”

A ripple of applause. Dean blinked, stunned, before breaking into an awkward grin as the Gryffindor table erupted in cheers. Harry gave him a friendly slap on the back, while Ron gave him an honest smile, both genuinely happy for their friend.

“In fourth place… Miss Rebecca Knightly, of House Ravenclaw.”

Ravenclaw’s first years burst into polite delight. Rebecca a petite girl, flushed, ducking her head, accepting the applause with quiet grace.

“In third place… Mr Draco Malfoy, of House Slytherin.”

A controlled, refined clapping came from the Slytherin table. Draco merely inclined his head in precise acknowledgement. For the briefest moment, his gaze lifted, flicked toward the round table where the Board members sat, and then away again, face carefully composed, Occlumency walls firm and unyielding.

“In second place… Miss Padma Patil, of House Ravenclaw.”

This time the applause was warmer, brighter. Padma's eyes widened, then she beamed.

“And in first place…”

Dumbledore paused. A smile touched the edges of his eyes.

“Miss Hermione Granger… of House Slytherin.”

Hermione remembered the result card in her hands and opened it to see "Outstanding" written next to each subject.

Her gaze drifted to the High Table where the Board members were looking right at her. Some looked astonished. Some perturbed. Some impressed despite themselves.

The tall wizard with long silver hair, the one who had made her feel so small in the Headmaster’s office about ten months earlier, the one she had come to know was Lucius Malfoy, was eyeing her. He looked at her as though she was a disease and needed to be kept from spreading.

Hermione stared back defiantly. She would never, ever again allow people like the Malfoys to make her feel small. Neither father nor son were going to intimidate her.

Dumbledore continued.

“And I must make a special note. Not only has Miss Granger achieved perfect marks in every subject, in Transfiguration, she has achieved a score of one hundred and twelve marks. In Potions, one hundred and seven. And in Charms, one hundred and eight. Such scores are… exceedingly rare. My congratulations to you, young lady."

Reluctant, almost pained applause broke out among the Slytherin tables.

Hermione gave the Headmaster a slight nod, accepting the praise.

Her eyes landed on Draco Malfoy. He wasn’t looking at her, nor was he looking at his father. In fact, he seemed determined to avoid looking at his father. He was staring intently at the result card in his hand.

He had ranked third in their year. Third amongst hundreds of students. Hundreds of magical children whom Hogwarts had deemed worthy of it's halls. And yet, he looked vexed.

And Hermione knew why.

The cause of Draco Malfoy’s distress was not that he had been outdone by Padma Patil, a witch who was from a different culture, but came from a long line of Tantriks. No. That was almost acceptable. What pained the Malfoy scion was the knowledge that he had been beaten, by a considerable margin, by Hermione Granger. The Mudblood Granger.

Hermione allowed herself to feel a vicious satisfaction at this.

She was here and despite everything, she had conquered. And there was nothing that the Pureblood supremacist bullies Draco Malfoy could do about it.

She resolved to make sure thar this feeling of helplessness was something Malfoy and his kind would come to know very intimately.

Across the Hall, Harry turned to Ron.

“You heard that, right?” he murmured. "Incredible!"

Ron nodded mutely, still holding his parchment, knuckles white.

Harry glanced down at his own results. He’d passed everything. He had an Outstanding in Defence Against the Dark Arts. Exceeds Expectations in Potions, Astronomy and Herbology. Acceptable in Transfiguration, History of Magic and Charms. He felt relief spread through him, warm and steady. He hadn’t been brilliant, but his grades were fairly respectable.

Ron stared at his result card.

Two "Exceeds Expectations" - in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms. Four "Acceptables" - in Astronomy, Herbology, Potions and History of Magic. And one "Concerning", in Transfiguration.

His grades weren't awful. He had passed the exams just fine. However, as Dumbledore went on and got to the third year's, and eventually the fifth year's top fives, Ron’s mood turned sour.

Fred and George had ranked third and fifth amongst third years. While Percy was at the very top of fifth year.

Ron’s throat tightened.

"Bloody brilliant", he said, bitterly, "my grades are the worst among us.

“You passed,” Harry said quietly. “That’s what matters. And you got two EEs. That's pretty good, Ron."

“Yeah...” Ron folded the parchment once. Then twice. Then thought better of it and smoothed it back out, as if hoping the marks might change.

He glanced over at Hermione, sitting upright and confident, and far away from her housemates. As if she knew she didn't need them, they needed her.

Impossible. Brilliant. Unreachable.

He loved his brothers and Harry. He did. And he really was happy for Hermione. But the voice in his head was relentless.

You’re the only one who’s not exceptional. Not brilliant. Not top of anything.

Harry clapped his shoulder gently. “You’re going to be fine, you know that?”

Ron forced a grin. “Yeah. Course I am.”

But the warmth didn’t reach his eyes.

As the Hall buzzed with clapping, laughter, and chatter, Ron stared down at his parchment once more… and that familiar, sinking feeling settled in his chest.

Small. Ordinary. Least of them all.

And try as he might, he couldn’t shake it.

Harry noticed it in the quiet way Ron folded his report, in the careful neatness that didn’t suit him. Normally Ron would have crumpled parchment, stuffed it into his bag with a groan and a joke. Today, he smoothed the edges flat against the table, eyes fixed on the wood as if the grain might offer an answer to a question he didn’t want to speak aloud.

Harry looked at his own parchment once more. “Outstanding” in Defence Against the Dark Arts glinted faintly at the top, and then slipped it away. He didn’t say a word about it.

Around them, the Great Hall buzzed. Cheers erupted from other tables, older students were being called forward, prefects were clapped on the back, and somewhere to their left Fred and George whooped loudly at their placements. It echoed off the ceiling and made Ron’s shoulders tense for just a second.

Harry leaned back in his chair as if nothing were wrong. “Fancy a walk later?” he asked lightly, eyes on the floating candles rather than on Ron. “Before the feast starts, I mean. We'll ask Hermione too."

“Yeah,” Ron said after a beat. “Yeah, sure.”

That was all.

So he didn’t mention scores. Didn’t mention rankings. Didn’t mention how close they all were, or how “Acceptable” was a pass, or how next year would be different.

He just stayed. Present. Normal.

It was now time to award the coveted Hogwarts House Cup.

Dumbledore raised his hand once more.

The banners rippled overhead, twitching as if they too were holding their breath.

“In fourth place… House Gryffindor.”

A collective groan rolled through the red and gold side of the Hall.

Ron gave a weak, theatrical sigh, slumping over the table. “Well, that’s just embarrassing, isn’t it?”

Harry snorted quietly beside him.

“In third place… House Hufflepuff.”

“In second place… House Slytherin.”

A flicker of surprise there, though the green tables reacted with restrained nods and cool acceptance.

“And in first place…” Dumbledore smiled. "is House Ravenclaw. Ravenclaw wins the House Cup."

Blue and bronze erupted in triumphant cheers as their banners shimmered brighter, gleaming like polished sapphires.

Ron watched it all, then glanced back at Harry.

“You know what?” Ron muttered. “I feel a bit better, actually.”

“Oh?” Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Ron said, a crooked grin finally breaking through. “Turns out it wasn’t just me who was rubbish. The whole House was rubbish.”

Harry laughed, a real laugh this time, and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Well, at least we’re consistently terrible,” he said.

“Exactly. Team effort.”

And for the first time since they'd stepped into the Great Hall that day, Ron chuckled without the weight of comparison sitting quite so heavily in his chest.

Soon, the corridor began to fill with students and teachers as they began to exit the Great Hall. They still had a few hours before they'd be back for the end-of-term feast.

Harry and Ron spotted Hermione just as she spotted them.

Hermione spotted them first.

“Harry. Ron,” she said, her voice crisp but warm as she approached. She looked different today somehow, lighter, as if the weight of final exams had lifted from her shoulders. A roll of parchment was tucked under her arm, and she had a serene smile on her lips.

Harry smiled. “Hey Hermione! We passed,” he said, lifting his report card. “Not terrible, either.”

Hermione took it carefully, her eyes scanning the grades with impressive speed. “An Outstanding in Defence Against the Dark Arts,” she said, her lips curling into a small, approving smile. “I knew it. You’ve always been naturally gifted there, Harry.”

Harry shrugged nonchalantly, but he wore a proud smile.

“And Exceeds Expectations in Potions, Herbology and Astronomy,” she went on, handing the parchment back. “That’s actually very good, Harry. Much better than I had expected, considering how little effort you appear to put in.”

Ron gave a snort of laughter, but it faded just as quickly. His own report card remained clenched in his hand, slightly crumpled at the edges.

“And you, Ron?” she prompted, looking at him expectantly.

“It’s… fine,” he muttered.

Hermione raised a brow. “May I see?”

There was a long pause. Then, reluctantly, Ron handed it over.

Hermione studied it, her expression shifting into something far more analytical. “Exceeds Expectations in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms. That’s good. You can do it when you actually focus, Ron. But Transfiguration and Potions…” She tapped the parchment lightly as she gave it back. “These could have been much better if you’d applied yourself more. You simply don’t concentrate.”

Harry winced. This was not what Ron needed toght now.

Ron took the paper back with a huff. “Thanks, Hermione. Very encouraging.”

She didn’t seem offended in the slightest. If anything, she looked thoughtful. “I’m only being honest. You have potential, Ron. You just squander it sometimes. If you actually dedicate yourself this summer, really apply focus and discipline, I’m certain you could dramatically improve next year.”

Ron rolled his eyes.

Hermione, oblivious, continued, “I’ve already read all the second year texts once. I’m planning to go through them again over the summer, perhaps make additional notes, organise a revision schedule....”

Harry stared. “You’ve already read all of them?”

“Twice for Transfiguration and Potions,” she added absently. “It isn’t nearly as complex as the advanced material.”

Ron let out a long, exaggerated groan. “You’re unreal Hermione, you know that?”

“I’m just being practical,” she replied crisply. “You two should read ahead as well. Even just an hour a day would make a measurable difference.”

Harry glanced at Ron, trying not to smile. Ron just stared up at the ceiling as if begging the castle to swallow him whole.

Harry decided he needed to change the subject.

"Have you two packed?" He asked

"I have", said Hermione.

"Almost done", said Ron

"Great.", Harry said, "let's head to Hogsmeade for a while. We could just walks around, yeah?"

"Sounds lovely!" Hermione said brightening up.

They were just about to leave when they heard a silken, condescending drawl from right behind them.

"Well, well", said Lucius Malfoy, "who do we have here?"

The aristocrat sauntered over to them, his eyes fixed on Harry.

"If it isn't Mr Harry Potter", he said as he extended his hand, "Lucius Malfoy. We meet at last".

Harry shook the offered hand and responded with a cool, "Pleasure".

Lucius, however, did not release his hand at once and actually pulled Harry closer. Using his cane handle, he parted the hair that fell over Harry’s forehead and exposed his scar - an action that struck Hermione as particularly inappropriate. She and Ron exchanged a glance.

"Your scar.... is legend", Lucius's voice was now lowered, "as is, of course, the wizard who gave it to you".

Harry extracted his hand out of Malfoy’s grip, and gently but firmly pushed the cane handle away from his face.

"Voldemort killed my parents", he said, his voice steady and eyes looking right into Lucius's, "he was a murderer and a coward. Nothing more."

"You speak his name", Lucius remarked with a raised eyebrow, "How.... interesting".

It was then that he noticed the girl with wild curls standing right next to Harry. The girl whose amber eyes glared daggers at him.

"And you must be Miss Granger", he said with a smile that held just the right amount of mockery, "I suppose I ought to congratulate you for being top of your year. What a grand achievement for someone of your... background."

"Why thank you, Mr Malfoy", Hermione replied, her coldness able to rival that of any aristocrat, "It's nice to meet you. I see that you're every bit as mature and as well-mannered as your son."

Just as she spoke those word, Hermione saw Draco come to stand at his father's side. Not quite at his side, but a bit behind him, shielded by him. He shot her a reproachful look, which she returned in kind.

Meanwhile, Lucius's face had darkened, losing all its humour. Clearly, he hadn’t expected the Mudblood to be prepared with such a retort.

Hermione saw the hatred he had for her fully reflected in his eyes. Good.

"Now, my friends and I would love to stand here and collect whatever pearls of wisdom you may throw our way, but unfortunately, we have to be somewhere. Do excuse us."

With that she turned to Harry and Ron and said "Come on, boys". The boys didn't need to be told twice.

"One would imagine", Lucius said, after the trio was out of earshot, "that after receiving the advantages your mother and I have afforded you, you'd at least be at the top of your House. If not at the top of your year."

Only after he had delivered this scathing comment did he finally turn to look at his son.

"Father, I... I worked very hard. The teachers... they all just favour..." Draco tried to explain, before Lucius cut him off.

"Outdone by a Mudblood!" he hissed at his son in a way that never failed to scar Draco’s very soul.

Not giving his son another opportunity to explain, Lucius Malfoy stormed off, leaving Draco standing there.

After their brief jaunt to Hogsmeade, Harry, Hermione and Ron decided they would head to their dorm rooms, get changed, and then meet in the Great Hall for the feast.

Slytherin Prefect Antonia Warrington intercepted them just as they reached the grand entrance.

“Granger, Headmaster wants to see you in his office.”, she said in a clipped tone.

Harry and Ron both stopped. Harry’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. Ron looked faintly alarmed on her behalf.

“Not in trouble, are you?” he asked.

“I don’t believe so,” Hermione replied, though her voice carried the tiniest trace of uncertainty.

She followed Warrington up the staircases to the Headmaster’s office.

It was just as she remembered, with shelves crowded with curious silver instruments, the soft whirr and click of unknown magical devices, portraits of former Headmasters slumbering in painted frames. Fawkes, the Headmaster’s phoenix sat on his perch, his reddish brown eyes warm and intelligent as they regarded her with a friendly curiosity.

Dumbledore stood behind his desk, hands folded, his long silver beard glinting in the low light.

“Miss Granger,” he said kindly. “Please, come in.”

Hermione stepped forward. “You wanted to see me, Headmaster?”

“Indeed I did. And may I begin by offering you my sincerest congratulations.”

He gestured toward the chair opposite him.

“You have done something quite extraordinary this year. Not simply in winning the Ilvermorny tournament at so young an age, but in achieving perfection across every one of your subjects. Even getting bonus marks. That is… exceptionally rare.”

Hermione felt heat creep into her cheeks. “Thank you, sir. I only did my best.”

“And that,” Dumbledore said gently, “is precisely why you succeeded.”

There was a pause, then his gaze sharpened, though not unkind, but still piercing in its clarity.

“I also wished to commend your bravery.”

Hermione looked up, startled. “My… bravery, sir?”

“Yes. In the forest. On Samhain night.”

A quiet, icy shock passed through her.

“Sir... how did you....?”

Before she could finish, a faint, knowing smile touched his lips.

“Miss Granger, the castle wanted you to be able to leave and warn Harry and Ron. On the night in question, the Runes carved into the Slytherin Casting Chamber detected your intent, and your clarity of will. A powerful desire to help, not to flee. To protect, not to hide.”

Hermione’s heart hammered.

“You were able to leave that night,” he continued softly, “because Hogwarts wished you to leave. The castle wished you to go to Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley. It wished you to find them.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes distant now, as though he were seeing further paths than the present one.

“Friendship,” he murmured, “is not always forged by coincidence. Sometimes it is called into being."

A hush fell over the office.

“You do not yet see the road before you, Hermione,” he added quietly. “None of you do. But I will say this - there may come a time when Harry Potter will require every ounce of support, intelligence, loyalty and courage that those around him can offer. He would be fortunate, indeed, deeply fortunate, to have someone like you at his side.”

Hermione swallowed, her expression solemn now.

“I will do whatever I can to help my friends,” she said. Her voice did not waver.

Dumbledore’s eyes softened.

“I have no doubt of that.”

He rose slightly, signalling the end of the conversation.

“I fear I have already taken up too much of your well-earned evening, Miss Granger. I believe your friends are waiting for you in the Great Hall.”

Hermione stood.

“Thank you, Professor… for everything.”

“And thank you, Miss Granger,” he replied gently. “For being precisely who you are.”

The staircase unwound beneath her feet as she descended, her thoughts loud and breathless. The castle, the runes, the idea that Hogwarts itself had trusted her…

---

June 30, 1994. The Hogwarts Express

The Hogwarts Express groaned softly as it pulled away from the platform, scarlet carriages shuddering into motion beneath a thin veil of steam. Beyond the window, platforms and faces blurred together, then receded, until only the green countryside remained - rolling and indifferent, so peaceful it almost hurt.

Remus Lupin sat opposite the three children in the compartment, his hands folded loosely over the fabric of his robes. He allowed his head to fall gently back against the seat as though exhaustion had claimed him, eyes drifting shut, his breathing slow and even.

He let them believe he was asleep.

In truth, he listened.

The clink of Hermione’s trunk settling into the overhead rack echoed faintly. A rustle of chocolate frog wrappers followed, then Ron’s unmistakable grunt of irritation as he fumbled with a stubborn ribbon.

“You’re going to break it, Ron,” Hermione said, her tone brisk but fond. “You hold it here, and then pull that end. Honestly, how is it possible that you’ve never learned this?”

“Because,” Ron muttered, “some of us don’t sit around reading about how to open sweets in ten different languages.”

Harry laughed quietly, a warm and rich sound.

“That’s not a subject, Hermione. Confectionary Manipulation, Volume IV isn’t on the Hogwarts curriculum.”, he quipped.

“Not yet, perhaps,” she replied, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice.

Remus felt the faintest curve of a smile touch his lips.

So much had changed in one short year.

Last September, Hermione Granger had stood on the threshold of this world, like a visitor from another world. Too brilliant, too sharp-edged, too lonely. The first Muggle-born to have ever been sorted into Slytherin, she had to live among children raised on prejudice. She'd had to bear every spoken and unspoken slight that had ever been muttered against her kind.

And yet here she was now, her voice woven into the easy rhythm of friendship beside the two boys who had once stared at her with mutual frustration and reluctant admiration.

“You realise Gryffindor came last, right?” Ron said suddenly from around a mouthful of chocolate.

“Hard to miss,” Harry replied drily. “We groaned in unison. Very dramatic.”

“At least the humiliation was communal,” Ron added. “That helped. Sort of bonded us in misery.”

Hermione sniffed. “If you’d both taken your studying more seriously....”

“Oh, here we go,” Harry said lightly.

Ron groaned. “Hermione, I passed. Isn’t that good enough?”

“For now,” she allowed. “But next year will be harder. You can’t rely on luck and last-minute cramming indefinitely.”

“Watch me.”

A beat of silence. Then, softer, “You were amazing though,” Harry said, his voice full of admiration, “First place. Perfect scores. You're incredibly brilliant."

"Right. Brilliant", Ron said, agreeing wholeheartedly.

“I'm not brilliant, you two. I work very hard.", Hermione said, warmly.

“No one else got a hundred-and-bloody-twelve in Transfiguration,” Ron said. “I’m fairly certain McGonagall wanted to adopt you.

Hermione burst out laughing.

"Then she'd have to face my mother's wrath."

This was followed by more laughter and easy conversation.

Remus felt something warm and strangely achy bloom in his chest.

He thought of James, Lily and Sirius in their youth. Of the fire, the recklessness, the arrogance, yes, but also the fierce, foolish hope they had carried. The desperate belief that they might change the world.

He had watched it all burn once.

And yet… here it was again. Not in arrogance this time, but in stubborn kindness, in quiet brilliance, in a boy who had known too much grief and still chose laughter. In a girl born outside magic who had claimed it with brilliance, discipline, and a heart that refused to bow. In a freckled, awkward boy who chose loyalty every single time.

Perhaps, Remus dared to think, just perhaps… these children will get what we never did. A chance.

He shifted slightly, forcing a deeper, more convincing breath. The children continued their chatter about sweets, summer plans, ridiculous theories involving George Weasley and illegal fireworks. Their voices blended together like music, and he let himself drift in it, halfway between sleep and memory.

In his heart, something delicate and forbidden bloomed once more.

Hope.