Toil and Trouble Chapter 17 : The places we are kept - Part 2 of 3 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)

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July 16, 1994. Number Four Privet Drive

Harry folded the last of his shirts into his bag, giving the room a final once-over. It still looked the same, his old room, with all his comics, storybooks and childhood toys. He took a moment to wonder why his aunt had never packed any of this stuff away. It wasn't as though he was going to use them.

Dudley lingered in the doorway, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his shorts.

“So,” Harry said, hoisting the bag onto his shoulder, “make sure you keep up with the running, alright? And the squats, stretches etc. You're starting to see results, so don't just stop now.”

Dudley rolled his eyes in a half-hearted attempt at nonchalance. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

There was a brief pause.

“When’ll you come next?” Dudley asked, trying very hard to sound casual and failing miserably.

Harry hesitated only a second. “Christmas, probably.”

Dudley’s face fell. Not dramatically, just a tiny shift of the mouth and eyes, but Harry caught it. Quickly, he added, “It’s just… school’s really demanding. Loads of homework. You saw my textbooks. And second year will be even worse."

Dudley nodded, accepting this without resentment, which felt more surprising than anything that had happened all summer.

“We had fun, didn’t we?” Harry tried, offering him a crooked smile.

Dudley’s ears turned a bit pink. “Yeah,” he said with a small smile, “It was good. Running with you and all.”

Harry clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Keep at it. I’ll check up on you.”

A faint smirk appeared, almost a challenge. “You better.”

Downstairs was even stranger.

Vernon Dursley - large, pink, perpetually suspicious Vernon - was on the drawing room sofa, talking to Sirius Black and Remus Lupin in a tone that bordered on… polite.

“So you invest in what exactly?” Vernon was asking, genuinely curious. “Property? Manufacturing?”

“A little of everything,” Sirius said smoothly, legs crossed, wand nowhere in sight for once. "Real estate, yes. But mostly in emerging technologies.”

“I’ve always said that” Vernon said importantly. “Never put all your eggs in one basket. Sensible.”

Remus caught Harry’s eye over Vernon’s shoulder and offered a tiny, amused shrug.

“We’d better get going” Sirius said, rising. “Thanks for the tea, Petunia.”

Petunia nodded stiffly from the doorway. “You’re welcome.”

“We’ll be in the car, Harry,” Remus added gently.

Harry was just about to follow when Petunia’s voice cut quietly through the room.

“Harry. A moment.”

He paused.

She led him into the kitchen, where the window faced the quiet, neat garden. Without preamble, she reached into her apron pocket and pressed something into his hand.

A crisp £100 note.

Harry stared at it. “Aunt Petunia…?”

“It’s for your birthday,” she said quickly, before he could object. “Buy yourself something nice.”

“I... thank you,” Harry managed. His voice came out small, surprised.

Petunia looked at him then, really looked. As though there was something hovering on the tip of her tongue. Something she was aching to let out.

But after a moment, she blinked rapidly, straightened and cleared her throat. “Well, off you go. I’ve got work to do.”

He nodded, slipped the note carefully into his pocket, and walked to the front door after shaking Dudley’s hand and saying goodbye to his uncle.

Sirius and Remus were waiting by the car, chatting quietly. Harry climbed into the back seat. As they pulled away from Privet Drive, he glanced back, because he always did, no matter how much he pretended otherwise.

And there she was. Petunia, standing in the kitchen window, hands pressed lightly to the sill.

Watching him leave. Always watching.

---

July 16, 1994. Granger Residence, Hampstead

The silver-grey Rolls Royce glided up the quiet residential street like something from a magazine advertisement - polished, elegant, but not entirely out of place among the other luxury cars parked along the pavement. Ron sat stiffly in the back seat beside Harry, tugging nervously at the collar of his best shirt.

“Mum ironed it twice,” he muttered under his breath. “Said the Grangers ‘looked so posh’ and 'Hermione’s always so proper', and that I can’t be embarrassing.”

Harry smothered a grin. “You look fine.”

“Fine?” Ron hissed. “I look like I’m going to a Ministry hearing!”

“Better than looking like you’re going to a Quidditch match,” Sirius piped in from the front. “Which is what you’d be wearing if left to your own devices. You should thank your mum."

Ron made a strangled noise of agreement.

As the car turned into a long, tree-lined drive, Sirius let out a low whistle. The Grangers’ home rose into view. A stately, ivy-draped house with tall sash windows, pale stone, and immaculate hedges. Almost a mini-mansion.

“Well,” Remus murmured, “this is rather nice.”

“That’s one word for it,” Ron whispered, eyes wide. "Didn’t know Hermione was rich."

The car came to a slow stop before the gate, and Hermione Granger was right there, ready to recieve them.

“Harry! Ron!”

The gates swung open with a soft click, and in the next heartbeat Hermione was hugging them both. Harry first, Ron second.

Remus smiled indulgently as he shook her hand, asking how she's been. Hermione politely told the Professor she's been well, thank you.

Sirius placed a kiss atop her head and asked if she'd collected any new degrees while they weren't looking. Hermione beamed.

“So glad you all came!” she said breathlessly. “Come in, come in!”

They followed her up the stone steps. The door was open, and Rose and Hugo Granger stood warmly in the foyer, dressed neatly but not stiffly, their faces lit with cautious smiles.

“You must be Sirius Black,” Rose said, reaching out a hand.

“And you must be Doctor Granger,” Sirius replied with a sweeping bow entirely too dramatic for the setting. “A pleasure.”

“Doctor and Doctor,” Remus greeted with a polite nod. “Thank you for having us.”

“Oh, please,” Hugo said, smiling. “Call us Rose and Hugo. And welcome. Truly.”

Harry and Ron offered shy, polite greetings. Rose clasped Harry’s hand between both of hers.

“We’ve heard so much about you. Hermione simply lights up when she speaks of her friends.”

The Grangers’ cook, Mrs Moore, served dinner. It was beautifully plated, elegant but comforting. At first the atmosphere felt a bit stiff, as though both sides, the Magical and the Muggle, were afraid they might say something inappropriate.

Then Remus, with perfect timing, admired the small framed photograph of the self-adjusting dental mold on the sideboard.

“I recognise that design,” he said lightly. “A remarkable improvement over it's predecessors. You’ve done excellent work, Rose and Hugo.”

Rose blinked, pleasantly startled. “You know of our invention?”

“Remus knows everything,” Sirius said dryly. “It’s infuriating.”

Remus shot him a patient look. “I read an article about it once. Exceptional innovation.”

And just like that, the tension broke. Conversation flowed, and the atmosphere warmed.

Hugo laughed as he told stories about Hermione as a tiny child who insisted on finishing every book in the children’s section. Rose described how Hermione’s first word had been “again” after demanding the same story repeatedly.

Hermione flushed as her parents revealed how, due to her demanding academic work, she had hardly ever had time to make friends. And how grateful they were that she now had not one, but four friends.

"We've spoken to those two lovely girls, Parvati and Padma, over the phone.", said Rose warmly, "We wanted to invite them over too, but they'd be spending their entire summer with their family in India. But we're so glad to be able to meet at least two of Hermione’s friends I'm person."

Sirius grinned. “Well I’m grateful my godson is friends with such an intelligent girl. Maybe he’ll absorb some of her cleverness through osmosis.”

Harry immediately went crimson. Ron nearly choked on a piece of bread.

Hermione groaned. “Sirius!”

But everyone laughed, even Mrs Moore, who passed through at that moment.

“Oh, but I hear Harry’s very talented,” Rose said warmly. “Hermione always said he excelled in that Defence subject.”

Harry felt heat crawl up his neck. “Ron’s good at it too,” he blurted. “Better than me sometimes.”

Rose beamed at Ron. “Oh! Good for you, young man.”

Ron smiled back, proud and mortified at the same time. "Uh.. thanks... Mrs Granger!"

As dessert was cleared, Hermione turned to Remus and Sirius.

“I’ve been going spare,” she confessed. “I’ve read all my second year books twice already. And I’ve been devouring Muggle newspapers, as I can’t take them to Hogwarts. That ridiculous Ministry rule about Muggle materials.”

Sirius looked genuinely shocked. “My dear girl, aren’t you supposed to relax during the holidays?”

She gave him a look. “I am relaxed. This is my relaxed.”

Harry and Ron chuckled softly.

Sirius leaned back. “Well, as it happens, we have Muggle newspapers and magazines brought into Grimmauld Place, on a weekly basis. We keep up with this world. You’re welcome to read them when you come by on weekends.”

Hermione lit up instantly. “Really? That'd be great!"

“Of course,” Remus said. “Anything you need.”

Rose paused, visibly relieved, “Thank you both. Truly. I’ve been worried she’d lose touch with our world.”

Sirius waved a hand. “Nonsense. We’ll make sure she doesn’t.”

Then, with a mock-serious expression, he added, “So... now that you’ve met us properly… are you satisfied that we’re not evil dark wizards plotting to corrupt your daughter?”

The Doctors Granger froze in shock.

“Oh heavens no! Of course not!” Rose exclaimed. “We never thought..."

“Never Sirius, Remus!” Hugo added quickly. “Hermione only speaks kindly of you."

Sirius chuckled. “Relax. I’m teasing.”

Remus placed a calming hand on his arm. “We understand your concerns,” he told the Grangers gently. “Your daughter is part of a world you can’t fully see. A world where you can't be with her at all times. It’s only natural to worry.”

Rose’s shoulders softened. “Thank you. For understanding. And for taking care of her.”

Sirius’s expression eased into something warm and honest. “We look out for the people we care about. And Hermione is practically family now."

Hermione glanced between them. Harry, Ron, Sirius and Remus. And felt something anchor itself within her.

Two worlds. Her two worlds, on one table.

And maybe, just maybe, they didn’t have to pull her apart.

Dinner ended with warm compliments to Mrs Moore. Rose guided Sirius and Remus toward the drawing room for “some adult conversation,” which neither wizard looked particularly opposed to. Sirius had already clocked the impressive collection of antiques in the Granger House, and was looking forward to asking about them.

“Go on, Hermione,” Rose said, smiling. “Show your friends your room.”

Hermione tugged Harry and Ron up the carpeted staircase. The moment they stepped inside her room - tidy, bright, full of books piled in neatly labelled stacks. Ron exhaled a low whistle.

“It looks exactly like I imagined,” he said. “Except cleaner.”

Hermione swatted his arm, but she too was grinning.

Ron dropped onto the edge of her bed and opened the small satchel he'd brought. “Anyway, Charlie sent you these.”

He produced eight sheets of parchment, all thick with careful inkwork and precision shading. Anatomical sketches of dragons. Complete with wings, bone structures, claw articulation, scale layering, musculature. Charlie’s handiwork was unmistakable, being brilliant and detailed.

Hermione gasped softly. “Ron… these are wonderful!”

“Charlie said you can keep them,” Ron said, puffing slightly with pride. “In his words, ‘with my compliments to the brilliant young witch.’”

Hermione went pink. “That’s... that’s very kind of him.”

Harry leaned over her shoulder to see the parchments. “They’re incredible. Really well drawn."

“Not just that,” Hermione said, “His cross-section of the thoracic cavity is nearly as accurate as in Newt Scamander’s Complete Magical Bestiary.”

Ron blinked. “The what of the what?”

“Never mind,” Hermione sighed fondly.

The three of them settled on her bed, Hermione sitting cross-legged, Harry leaning back against the wall, Ron sprawled like he’d always lived there. The comfort of it, of belonging, was warm and immediate.

“So,” Hermione said, folding the dragon sketches carefully, “have either of you actually looked at your second year text books yet?”

The boys groaned in unison.

“I’ll study,” Ron said, “when it becomes absolutely necessary for survival.”

Harry made a face. “You know I’m hopeless at reading ahead, Hermione. Besides, I’m more excited about my birthday. July can’t come fast enough.”

“That’s because he’s getting his flying licence,” Ron said, chuckling “He’s been talking about it for weeks.”

"Hey, it means I'll be able to fly legally", said Harry..

He turned to Hermione. “Are you going to apply for your licence too?”

The question landed softly.

Hermione’s gaze dropped for a moment. “No,” she said quietly. “I… I don’t think so.”

Ron frowned, confused. “Why not? You’re brilliant at everything else.”

Hermione fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. “Brooms… they just... reject me,” she said in a small voice. “We don’t get along. It’s pointless trying, really.”

Harry’s expression softened. “Hermione...”

“It’s fine,” she insisted quickly, though her cheeks coloured. “I’d rather not waste time on something that clearly doesn’t want me. I have enough to focus on without wrestling with stubborn bits of enchanted wood.”

Ron blinked. “I didn’t know brooms could reject people.”

“They absolutely can,” Hermione said, crossing her arms. “And mine do. So I’ll just concentrate on what I’m actually good at.”

Harry nudged her shoulder gently. “You’re good at a lot, Hermione.”

Her expression warmed, just a little. “Thanks.”

They sat together for a while after that. Their chatting, laughing, drifting through comfortable silences.

When Hermione, Harry, and Ron came back downstairs, the adults looked up from their seats in the drawing room with a kind of eager expectancy, the sort that promised good news.

Rose folded her hands together. “We’ve been talking,” she said with a smile, “and we think it would be lovely for Hermione to spend some time at Sirius and Remus’s home. If that’s still alright with you all?”

Hermione’s face lit up instantly. “Really? Yes! Absolutely!”

Harry beamed. Ron perked up too.

“But,” Hugo added with a playful lift of his brow, “before we send her off to you gentlemen, we had plans of our own.”

Hermione blinked. “Plans?”

Rose nodded. “Yes, darling. We were hoping to take you to see a film. The Lion King. We’ve been looking forward to it for weeks, and we’d love for Harry and Ron to join us too. If they’d like.”

Hermione practically bounced on the balls of her feet. “Oh yes! It’s supposed to be wonderful!”

Harry grinned, excitement warming his face in a way neither Sirius nor Remus had seen since the last Quidditch Match they'd attended, “I’d love to go,” he said.

Rose turned to Ron, her expression kind. “And Ron, dear, do you know what a movie is?”

Ron straightened proudly. “Yes, I do actually. I’ve seen a few with Harry.”
Then, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, “They’re brilliant.”

“Well then,” Hugo said, clapping his hands lightly, “that settles it. We’ll take the three of them to dinner and a film tomorrow evening.”

Hermione clasped her hands together, sparkling. “This is going to be amazing.”

“And the day after that,” Rose said, looking at Sirius and Remus, “Hermione can go stay at your place."

Sirius pressed a hand to his chest theatrically. “You trust us that much, Doctor Granger?”

Rose smiled. “We trust Hermione’s judgement. And yours too, Mr. Black.”

"Please. It's Sirius and Remus."

Remus inclined his head graciously. “We’ll take good care of her.”

Ron muttered to Harry under his breath, “Do all movie places have popcorn?”

Harry whispered back, “Absolutely.”

Hermione caught both of them, rolled her eyes fondly, and laughed.

---

July 17, 1994. Notting Hill, London

The next evening, the Grangers’ BMW pulled up to the Electric Cinema in Notting Hill - all red brick, vintage lights, and an old-world charm that made it feel like a pocket of magic in the Muggle world.

“This is our favourite theatre,” Rose said proudly as they walked in.

Harry and Ron exchanged a grin. They remembered being here once with Sirius and Remus. Sirius had insisted on buying every snack on the menu, while Remus had pretended not to know him.

Inside, the theatre was even more spectacular than Ron remembered.

Rows of plush red velvet sofas, and beds and little side tables. Lamps glowed softly. The whole place smelled of buttered popcorn and warm chocolate.

Ron dropped onto one of the sofas they were led to. “Blimey,” he whispered. “This is better than the Gryffindor common room.”

Hermione laughed. “Don’t let Professor McGonagall hear you say that.”

They settled in. Hermione between Harry and Ron, the Grangers just beside them, and soon the lights dimmed.

When The Lion King began, Ron froze.

Animated animals. Singing. An entire sunrise painted across the screen.

“What....?” he breathed, eyes wide. “It's drawn and it moves... but no actors! But the drawings... they move!"

Harry grinned. Hermione stifled a laugh. Her parents smiled good-naturedly. And Rose looked absolutely delighted. He remained transfixed for the entire film. Every dramatic moment sucked him in. He mouthed “bloody hell” at least four times, silently, because Hermione elbowed him each time he opened his mouth.

When Mufasa died, his jaw actually dropped.

By the end, he was leaning so far forward that Harry had to pull him back to keep him from falling off the sofa.

“That,” Ron declared as the credits rolled, “was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Hermione squeezed his arm. “I knew you’d like it.”

"I told you animated movies were great, Ron."

"Ah... so that was animation" Ron whispered, still looking at the screen.

After they left the theatre, Hugo drove them to one of London’s finest restaurants, the kind with crisp white tablecloths, servers who moved like ghosts, and silver polished enough to blind someone.

Harry found it exciting. Hermione looked perfectly composed. Ron… was trying very hard not to touch anything.

He sat down stiffly, eyes bouncing from chandelier to cutlery to the polished marble floor. He tugged at his sleeves, then at the edge of his napkin, unsure where to put his hands.

When the menus arrived, Ron opened his slowly, and froze again.

Hermione saw it at once. She knew exactly what he was thinking.

Don’t pick the expensive thing. Don’t be rude. Don’t embarrass yourself. Don’t make them pay too much.

All things Ron had been raised to consider.

His eyes darted down the menu searching for the cheapest dish.

Rose caught it too, and she acted immediately.

“Ron,” she said gently but firmly, “you must order anything you want. Please don’t worry about price. You’re our guest.”

Ron looked up, startled.

“But... I mean... I just..."

“No arguments, young man” Rose said, in the tone of a mother who never lost an argument.

Ron blinked, then smiled. A real, relieved smile that softened his whole face.

“Alright,” he said, setting the menu down with more confidence. “Thank you, Mrs. Granger.”

Hermione watched him, heart warm. She had been ready to feel protective on his behalf, but her mother had seen the problem instantly and handled it with quiet grace.

Throughout dinner, Ron relaxed more and more, laughing at Hugo’s stories, eagerly explaining Quidditch when Hugo asked, and even trying a complicated dish he couldn’t pronounce.

Harry teased him. Hermione giggled fondly. Rose and Hugo looked delighted.

By the time dessert arrived, a shared platter of pastries and fruit, Ron had entirely forgotten his earlier worries.

“That was brilliant,” he said as he took a forkful of chocolate tart. “Muggles really know how to eat.”

Hugo laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Ron.”

---

July 18, 1994. Wiltshire

The sun hung low and molten over Wiltshire, gilding the rolling hills in pale light as Lucius Malfoy and his son strode through the manicured grounds of the enormous estate. Cloaks swayed behind the pair as they crossed into the unicorn pastures, fenced not by wood or wire, but by shimmering runes pulsing faintly with ancient magic. One of the several unicorn farms owned by the Malfoys.

Draco had been here before, though never like this. Never as an heir being inspected as much as the land was.

Lucius walked with his usual effortless command, the slight tap of his serpent-headed cane punctuating the silence. “Fourteen,” he said, as though announcing a number in a ledger. “Old enough that you stop drifting through summers like some idle house-elf. A Malfoy should understand where his wealth comes from. Where his power comes from.”

Draco swallowed. “Yes, Father.”

A cluster of wizards and witches stood waiting by the pasture gates, dressed in simple brown robes - functional, unembellished, forgettable. Their hands fidgeted at their sides, and even the most senior of the creature-handlers bowed too deeply when Lucius approached.

“Lord Malfoy,” said the head caretaker, a man with worn boots and ink-stained fingers. “We’ve prepared the monthly....”

Lucius raised a hand. The man fell silent.

“Walk with me,” Lucius said to Draco, ignoring the caretakers entirely. The workers trailed quietly behind, like ghosts awaiting command.

Beyond the gates, unicorns grazed in serene clusters, their silver coats shimmering with an otherworldly beauty. The adults glowed with a dignified luminosity, the foals with soft, golden light like candleflames made flesh.

“The creatures here are exceptional assets,” Lucius said. “They are to be treated with great care. Proper care yields the strongest hair, and the purest ingredients for Potions. But remember this, Draco.” He turned, pale eyes sharp as glass. “They are not companions. They are not friends, as some weak minded fools think them to be. Unicorn hair fetches seventy galleons a strand at market. Nothing with that sort of value should ever be the object of sentimental weakness.”

Draco nodded, though something tightened faintly in his chest.

They walked a little further, before Lucius decided to hear the farm caretaker's monthly report. Draco was left to his devices, and decided to look around a bit. He allowed himself to relax in the clean summer air and amidst the exotic fauna and flora. Then, the silence shifted, and a soft hoofbeat approached.

A foal, no older than a few months, stepped shyly toward Draco. Its tiny horn just a nub, its silver coat catching the dying sunlight. Its dark eyes were wide, guileless. Curious.

Draco felt it before he understood it. A faint vibration. Like a hum.

His wand, tucked in his robes, warmed gently against his side, the unicorn hair within it recognizing something old and familiar.

The foal nosed toward his hand. Draco’s fingers twitched. He almost reached out. Everything in him wanted to brush that soft muzzle, to let the magic between them settle.

“Draco", Lucius’s voice cut through the moment like a blade.

Draco froze. The foal waited, hopeful, luminous.

Then he withdrew his hand. The humming in his wand faded, and the magic ebbed like a tide pulling away from shore.

He turned his back on the foal and stepped briskly to his father’s side. Lucius was still listening to the caretaker, as the old wizard held a ledger in front of him, flipping through numbers and measurements.

Draco stared ahead, jaw set, hands folded neatly behind him. But his chest felt tight. Something soft and fragile crushed beneath the discipline expected of him.

Lucius didn’t notice. Or perhaps he did, and approved.

By the time they left the pasture, his mind was still, and the foal’s soft glow had been pushed to the farthest edges of Draco’s thoughts.

“A Malfoy must not be swayed by sentiment.", Lucius would later tell his son, "You will inherit all of this one day, Draco. The thestral farms, mooncalf barns, unicorn pastures, along with every asset that keeps this family above the rabble. Learn to see creatures as what they are. Resources. Nothing more.”

Draco nodded again, but this time he layered Occlumency over the ache. Allowing it to cool and harden.