Toil and Trouble Chapter 18 : Unseen Hands - Part 1 of 3 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)

Ginny’s really excited to be starting her first year, it's all she can talk about. You should have seen her face when she opened her letter! She's convinced she'll be in Gryffindor like the rest of us.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that Harry and I will see you at the Platform.
I’ll come find you straight away, when they're taking roll call for Muggle-borns.

Dad says this year, there are sixteen Muggle-born firsties. Highest number in years. Mum says it’s a good sign, but also that it means people will be watching more closely than usual.

And Harry says there's something he wants to talk about on the train. Something happened over the summer. I think, instead of me telling you in a letter, it's better if you hear it from him. He says it could be a misunderstanding, but who knows?

I can’t wait to see you.
Feels like it’s been ages, even though it hasn’t really.

See you on Thursday,
Ron

Hermione folded Ron’s letter carefully and slipped it between the pages of Hogwarts: A History, where she kept things she didn’t want to misplace.

Thursday.

She turned back to her open trunk, methodically stacking her books. Second year texts went in first. Transfiguration, Charms, Defence, Potions... their spines already familiar beneath her fingers. Having read each one at least twice already. After a moment’s thought, she added the third-year core texts as well. It felt prudent. She'd purchased third year transfiguration, potions, charms, astronomy, defence, history of magic and herbology, along with all her second year books while visiting her friends.

“Already packing third-year material?” her father asked mildly from the doorway.

Hugo Granger leaned against the frame, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He was smiling the fond, slightly amused smile he wore whenever Hermione did something that reminded him how very Hermione she was.

“Just the core subjects, of course” she replied without looking up. “I haven’t decided on electives.”

He stepped into the room, surveying the orderly chaos of books and parchment. “Have you started reading them already?”

“I've read them all,” Hermione admitted with a knowing smile. "I feel very familiar with them, although the level of difficulty is significantly higher than the second year curriculum."

Hugo chuckled. “Of course.”

He hesitated, then sat on the edge of her bed. “Have you thought any more about what you might want to do after Hogwarts? I believe your mother tried to have this conversation with you during winter break."

Hermione’s hands stilled for just a fraction of a second.

“You’ve already got a Bachelor’s in mathematics,” he continued gently. “And your physics work was exceptional. Engineering would be a natural progression. Or research. Or do you wish to study medicine...."

She nodded automatically, the words sliding over her like water.

“I know,” she said. “I just… haven’t decided yet.”

Hugo watched her for a moment, perceptive as ever. “You don’t have to decide now. I only ask because, well... your magical education...” He chose his words carefully. “We always understood it as something necessary, to keep you healthy. We know you must use your magic...”

Hermione swallowed.

Yes. That was part of it. She knew that suppressing magic had consequences, she’d read enough to understand that. But it wasn’t the whole truth, not even close.

What she didn’t say was that magic thrilled her. That it made her feel alive and whole in a way she hadn’t known she was missing. That the wizarding world wasn’t simply a detour or a treatment plan, but a place where she belonged. Where the fire within her was allowed to burn unapologetically.

Her parents thought it was a phase. An extraordinary one, yes, but temporary. Something she would grow out of. They assumed that once she'd mastered her magic, she'd come back to their world and leave the magical one behind.

Engineering, medicine, research... She wanted to explore that future. But she also wanted a future with her magic at it's centre. The thought of choosing one over the other....

“I need time,” she said finally. “To think.”

Hugo nodded, accepting that for now.

“Take all the time you need.”

When he left, Hermione sat back on her heels and stared at the neat rows of books.

Two worlds. Two futures. And the growing sense that she might have to fight, quietly, to keep both.

She closed the trunk with a soft click and rested her hand on the lid, wondering which part of herself she would be asked to set aside first.

August 30, 1994. Diagon Alley

Diagon Alley was already crowded, the late summer air buzzing with voices, owl calls, and the clatter of carts over cobblestones. Ron walked a step behind his parents, Ginny darting ahead, the twins orbiting each other like unstable planets.

Harry and Sirius stood out instantly. Both in clothes were simple enough, but still looked expensive, Harry was talking about how he'd forgotten to buy new quills and thank goodness Remus had reminded him.

“All right,” Molly said briskly, clapping her hands together. “Arthur and I will take you lot to Bramblewick & Bindings first."
It was the shop where the Weasleys bought most of the books they needed for Hogwarts. Second-hand , good condition, sensible prices.

Fred winced theatrically. “There goes our dream of pristine margins.”

“You write in books,” Molly snapped.

“Historical annotations,” George corrected solemnly. Ginny snorted.

Their mother pointed her wand at the twins in warning, then turned to Harry and Sirius.

“I suppose we'll meet you two at Flourish and Blotts?”

“Take your time,” Sirius said easily. “We’ll be paying a visit to Gringotts, then we'll head over to Flourish. So... in about an hour then.”

Harry smiled at Ron, quick and easy. Ron smiled back. But it felt a bit tight. Second hand books. Ron knew, knew, that Harry didn’t judge. Harry never had. Still, the familiar knot tightened in his chest.

Bramblewick & Bindings was narrow and dim, shelves stacked high with uneven piles of books held together by twine and charmwork. The smell was old parchment and dust and magic that had soaked too deep into the paper to ever leave.

Ron knew the routine.

Mum would inspect every spine, tut under her breath, calculate silently. Dad would pretend not to notice the prices. Some books would be bought as-is. Others, the ones that were just a bit too dear, would be wrapped up with a promise to mend them later.

Third-hand, sometimes fourth.
Ron picked up his Defence textbook and flipped it open. The margins were already filled with cramped notes in three different inks. He wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to open a book that was entirely yours. No cracked spine, no notes scribbled in the margins. He knew his older brothers had had at least a few of those. But not Ron. Not when you were so far down the sibling pecking order. Not even Ginny, for that matter, the darling only daughter that she was.

He thought about Harry and Sirius at Gringotts, probably withdrawing hundreds of Galleons as if it was nothing. Harry wouldn't be thinking about prices or worrying about mending third hand books. When they'd see each other later on, Harry would simply talk to him without casting a single glance at his tattered old books, never once making him feel small.

Which somehow made the feeling worse.

Ron shifted the book in his hands, suddenly wishing, irrationally, that Hermione wouldn't see it. Wishing that one day, when she came to the Burrow for Yule, she wouldn’t quietly notice the patched furniture and the self-stirring pots that had seen better decades.

“Ron,” Mum said, holding up a Charms book. “This one’s serviceable. Just needs the binding tightened.”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “That’s fine.”

It always was.

Still, as they queued to pay, Ron couldn’t help but get a little excited about going to Flourish and Blotts. Weasleys never bought old quills. Both Weasleys parents insisted that the writing instruments their children used needed to be of the utmost quality - bright, new and immaculate. One of the few luxuries a Weasley child was afforded.

After making the necessary withdrawals from Gringotts, Harry and Sirius stepped into Flourish and Blotts and immediately wished they hadn’t.

The shop was packed. Not just with customers, but also with journalists, photographers, witches whispering excitedly behind gloved hands. Magical cameras flashed, popping like sparks in the air.

At the centre of it all stood Gilderoy Lockhart.
He was impossible to miss with his pale blue robes, a blinding smile, stacks of his own books piled artfully behind him. He posed as though the world were a stage built solely for his benefit.

Sirius swore under his breath.
“Of course,” he muttered. “Just our luck.”

Harry instinctively drew closer to him.
“We’ll be quick,” Sirius said firmly. “Quills. Ink. Out.” Harry nodded, grateful.

They slipped along the edge of the shop, trying to avoid notice. Harry handed over a few galleons for his new packs of eagle-feather quills, heart already lifting at the thought of escape.

He was just about to slip out unnoticed, when...

“Well. Well. WELL.”

The voice rang out like a spell cast at full volume. Harry froze.

Gilderoy Lockhart turned slowly, eyes widening theatrically as he spotted Harry. His smile stretched even wider.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lockhart boomed, already striding toward them, “it appears today has become even more special.”
People turned. Cameras swung.

“Harry Potter himself!” Lockhart cried, seizing Harry’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “What an honour! What a moment! I simply must say, Harry, you are looking remarkably well for someone so young.”

Harry barely had time to react before Lockhart waved a hand at the press.
“Get this, get this! The Boy Who Lived and Gilderoy Lockhart. Together at last!”
Flashes exploded.

And then,
“That will be quite enough.” Sirius stepped forward.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t shout.
He simply stood there — tall, dark, immovable. One hand resting lightly on Harry’s shoulder.

“My godson will not be photographed.”
The effect was immediate.
Lockhart faltered mid-smile. His grip loosened. His eyes flicked up, properly, and for the first time, recognition dawned.

“Ah,” Lockhart said weakly. “Lord… Lord Black.”

Sirius’s expression was polite in the way sharp knives were polite.

“Harry is fourteen,” Sirius continued calmly. “He is not here for publicity. And he will not be used to sell books.”

The crowd shifted, uncertain now. Lockhart laughed nervously.

“Oh... yes... of course! Of course. Much too young. Entirely my mistake.”

He released Harry’s hand as though it had burned him.

“Do forgive my enthusiasm,” Lockhart added quickly. “One does get carried away in the presence of… legends.”

Sirius inclined his head once. “Indeed.”

Harry barely remembered leaving. Sirius guided him firmly through the door, the noise fading behind them. Once outside, Harry exhaled shakily.

“Someone likes attention!" he said with a chuckles.
Sirius laughed back, "lives for it”

Just then, they spotted the Weasleys walking towards them, holding bags full of books.
Molly had her hand on Ginny’s shoulder, steering her gently away from the crowd, while Arthur was peering up at the shop sign as though calculating how long the commotion might last.

“Well,” Molly said briskly, adjusting her handbag, “we still need quills. But I’m not pushing all of you through that mob.”

She scanned her sons, eyes narrowing with decision.

“Fred,” she said.

“George,” Fred replied instantly.

“No, you’re Fred,” George said at the same time.

Molly sighed. “Honestly. One of you.”

“We’re interchangeable,” Fred said cheerfully.

“Right now, you’re the one with the longer fringe,” Molly snapped, thrusting a handful of coins into his palm. “So you’re Fred. Go get quills for everyone. And no nonsense.”

Fred looked down at the money, then back up, solemn as a judge. “I promise nothing.”

He vanished back into the crowd before Molly could say another word. Harry stood beside Sirius, watching the exchange with a faint smile. Ron lingered a step behind his parents, shifting his weight. The bundle of books under Ginny’s arm was uneven, their spines cracked, pages patched and re-patched with careful spells.

Then the crowd near the shop entrance parted.

Lucius Malfoy emerged as though the street had been waiting for him. He was accompanied by two wizards in dark robes who stood right behind him. His security personnel. His pale robes were immaculate, his long hair bound neatly at his nape. He paused, eyes sweeping the street with practiced disdain, until they landed on Sirius.

“Well,” Lucius drawled, lips curling. “If it isn’t the family embarrassment.”

Sirius smiled slowly. “Careful, Malfoy. You’ll strain something reaching that far for relevance.”

Lucius’s eyes flicked to Harry, then back to Sirius. “I see you’ve brought the boy into public again. Bold. Reckless. Typical.”

“Funny,” Sirius said lightly, “I was thinking the same thing about you and your personality.”
Arthur coughed, which might have been a laugh.

Lucius turned his attention then, gaze settling on the Weasleys like a bad smell he couldn’t quite place. His eyes dropped to Ginny’s arms, to the battered stack of books she held.

He clicked his tongue.

“My, my,” he said, reaching out without asking and plucking one of the books from Ginny’s grasp. She stiffened but didn’t protest.

“Second-hand. No—third, perhaps.” He flipped it open, inspecting a page held together by a faintly glowing mend. “Does the Ministry truly pay so poorly these days, Weasley? Or is dignity simply optional in your household?”

Arthur met his gaze evenly.

“I’ve given my children strong morals, Malfoy,” he said calmly. “Something you might consider teaching that son of yours.”

For a moment, the air tightened. Then Lucius laughed softly, dark and humorless. He closed the book and handed it back to Ginny with exaggerated care. “How very noble,” he murmured. “Do enjoy your principles.”

He turned away, cloak sweeping behind him, and strode toward the grand black carriage waiting at the end of the street. The door opened before he reached it. He did not look back.

Sirius watched the carriage depart, then glanced at Arthur with open admiration. “If you ever fancy a career in dueling, Weasley, I’d sponsor you.”

Arthur smiled faintly. “High praise.”

A moment later, Fred burst back out of the crowd, hair wild, clutching a bundle of quills. “Mission accomplished,” he announced. “Only got shouted at twice.”

Molly took the quills and counted them. “Miracles do happen.”

Ron let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and Harry nudged his shoulder lightly, grinning.

Diagon Alley went on bustling around them, as though nothing at all had happened.

August 30, 1994. The Burrow.

Ginny Weasley sat alone on the edge of her bed, the Burrow settling into its familiar nighttime creaks and murmurs around her. The day had been exhausting. Diagon Alley, robe fittings, crowds, noise. And beneath it all, a simmering anger she hadn’t yet managed to shake.

She could still hear Lucius Malfoy’s voice in her head. Silky, contemptuous, dripping with disdain as he spoke to her father. As if Arthur Weasley, Head of the Department of Protection of Muggle-borns, were something to be scraped off the sole of an expensive boot.

Her hands clenched in her lap.

How dare he? she thought fiercely. How dare he speak to Dad like that? To look at our books and clothes and decide they were lesser because they weren’t shiny and new?

Ginny pushed herself to her feet with a huff. If she didn’t do something, she might march downstairs and start ranting at thin air. Packing seemed safer.

Her trunk lay open at the foot of the bed. She knelt beside it and began stacking her books carefully inside. Transfiguration, Charms, Potions... making sure the spines lined up neatly. Her History of Magic textbook was last. The book had a noticeable bulge. Ginny frowned, and opened it.

Something slid partway out from between the pages.

It was a small, thin diary with a plain black cover. There was no title, no initials, nothing. It felt odd in her hands, lighter than she expected, the leather cool and smooth beneath her fingers.

She opened it.

Every page was blank.

Ginny flipped through it quickly, front to back. Nothing. Not a single mark. No writing. No dates. No name.

Confusion crept in, prickling at the edges of her thoughts.

“Where did you come from?” she murmured.
She stared at the diary, then at her History of Magic book. Mum had gone through every single purchase that day, checking prices, inspecting bindings. Ginny knew of her mother’s sharp eyes, the way she’d flipped through each book before handing it over.

This hadn’t been there then. Ginny was sure of it.

Did the shopkeeper put it in by accident? she wondered. But that didn’t make sense. It was tucked too neatly. Too deliberately. She closed the diary slowly, her thumb resting on the edge of the cover.

Then… how?

A strange pull settled in Ginny’s chest.
It wasn’t loud or forceful—just a quiet insistence, like a thought that wasn’t entirely her own. Before she could question it, her feet carried her to the battered little writing desk by the window, the one with a wobbling leg and ink stains burned into the wood from years of careless spells.

She sat, with the diary open before her.

Ginny dipped her quill and wrote, almost automatically.

Dear Diary

The words vanished the moment the quill lifted from the page. Ginny gasped and jerked back, heart pounding. She stared at the paper. Slowly, neat handwriting began to appear, as though written by an invisible hand.