Toil and Trouble Chapter 18 : Unseen hands - Part 3 of 3 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)
September 12, 1994. Hogwarts Library
Hermione and Padma sat opposite one another at a long oak table. Scrolls and books were neatly stacked between them, Padma was making notes with meticulous care, while Hermione skimmed a chapter on advanced counter-charms, quill tapping absently against the margin.
"It's a shame they don't let us bring Muggle stationary into Hogwarts", said Padma, not looking up from her notes, "I miss highlighters so much!"
Hermione gave a small laugh at this. "Yes, I do too." Then, looking at her friend, she asked, “Are you going to try out for the Ravenclaw junior team this year?”
Padma blinked, then smiled faintly. “Oh no. I don’t really see the appeal. Too cold, too loud, and far too much falling involved. Plus I've never been interested in any kind of sports."
Hermione smiled back. That sounded about right.
Padma paused, then tilted her head. “Did you go to watch the Gryffindor junior tryouts today?”
Hermione frowned slightly. She'd forgotten. “No...I meant to, but it completely slipped my mind.”
Padma’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh. Parvati told me about it. Harry made Seeker.”
Hermione’s face brightened instinctively. “He did?”
“Yes,” Padma said. Then, more hesitantly, “But Ron... He tried for the Keeper spot, but didn’t make it... didn’t even make reserve. Parvati said he didn't look happy.”
The words landed heavier than Hermione expected.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
She pictured Ron on the pitch - trying too hard, shoulders tight, that familiar mixture of hope and dread in his eyes. And she hadn’t been there. Not even watching from the stands.
Hermione closed her book at once and began stacking her things. “Thank you, Padma. For telling me.”
Padma nodded, watching her with a small, understanding look.
Hermione slung her bag over her shoulder and hurried out of the library, guilt prickling uncomfortably in her chest as she set off to find Harry and Ron.
September 12, 1994. The Black Lake
Hermione found Ron by the lake, standing close to the water’s edge, his shoulders hunched as he sent stone after stone skimming across the dark surface. Each one splashed and vanished, leaving ripples that spread and dissolved.
She slowed as she approached, suddenly unsure of what to say, then decided honesty was better than hesitation.
“Ron,” she said softly. “I heard about the tryouts. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I should’ve come to support you. And Harry.”
Ron didn’t look at her. He picked up another stone, weighed it in his palm, and threw it harder than the others.
“Harry doesn’t need support,” he said bitterly. “He made Seeker. Easily".
Another stone flew.
“And as for me,” he went on, his voice tight, “I’m sure you had much more important things to do than watch me fail.”
Hermione felt a sharp twist of guilt in her chest. “Ron, that’s not true,” she said quickly. “I just... I forgot, and I shouldn’t have. And you didn’t fail. I've seen you fly, Ron. You're good at it. You can try again next year. The fourth-years will be moving up to the senior teams. There’ll be more spots.”
Ron shrugged, still not looking at her. “Yeah. Maybe.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The lake lapped quietly against the shore.
Footsteps crunched behind them. Hermione turned to see Harry approaching, his hands shoved into his pockets, his expression wary. He looked from Hermione to Ron, clearly bracing himself.
“Hi,” Harry said, a little uncertainly.
Ron finally turned. He studied Harry for a second, then sighed, the tension easing out of him like air from a punctured charm.
“Congrats,” Ron said, managing a small smile. “Seeker. Knew you’d get it.”
Harry blinked, then smiled back, relieved. “Thanks mate. And, Ron... you flew brilliantly. Next year, there’ll be more openings. You’ll make it. I’m sure of it.”
Ron nodded, his earlier bitterness dulled now, though not entirely gone. “Yeah. Maybe next year.”
They sat down together on the grass, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched, and watched the sun sink lower over the lake, turning the water gold and copper. For a while, no one spoke, the silence felt like understanding rather than distance.
September 14, 1994. Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch
The Slytherin junior tryouts were held under a clear, sharp sky, the pitch already humming with anticipation. Second, third and fourth years clustered near the stands, while the hopefuls mounted their brooms under the watchful eyes of the Slytherin Captain, Marcus Flint, and Madam Hooch.
Draco Malfoy flew with cold precision.
He didn’t waste motion, didn’t show off. He cut through the air cleanly, turning on a sickle-point, accelerating in short, controlled bursts. When the Snitch was released, he spotted it almost immediately. Within minutes, he had it clenched in his fist, blonde hair plastered back by the wind, lips curved in a thin, satisfied smile.
“There,” someone muttered. “Malfoy’s got it.”
Madam Hooch blew her whistle.
“Seeker position goes to Draco Malfoy.”
Applause rippled through the Slytherin stands. Tryouts continued. Vincent Crabbe flew heavily but brutally, swinging the bat with raw strength rather than finesse. His Bludger hits were crude, but effective. One sent a fourth-year spinning away with a yelp.
“Beater,” the coach said after a brief consultation. “Crabbe.”
Crabbe grinned stupidly.
Barely had Draco dismounted when a low rumble echoed across the pitch. Heads turned as a long, gleaming carriage rolled onto the grass, pulled by a matched pair of black Abraxans. The carriage door swung open.
Inside were broomsticks. Ten of them, enough for the team and the reserves.
Perfectly aligned. Polished wood gleaming. Silver lettering along the shafts unmistakable even from a distance. Nimbus 2001
A sharp intake of breath swept the pitch.
Draco’s smile widened.
“A gift from my father,” he drawled lazily. “He said if I made Seeker, the whole team would fly Nimbus this year.”
For a heartbeat, there was stunned silence.
Then the Slytherin team erupted. They all surged toward Draco, lifting him bodily off the ground, cheering, shouting his name. Someone slapped his back hard enough to knock the breath from him. He didn’t protest.
Pansy Parkinson let out a delighted little titter and clapped theatrically, before darting forward and attaching herself to Draco’s side, one manicured hand gripping his sleeve, chin lifted so everyone could see.
Draco accepted the attention as his due.
High above the pitch, the Nimbus 2001s gleamed in the sun - sleek, fast, and unmistakably expensive.
September 17, 1994. Gryffindor Second Year Common Room
Dear Tom, Harry is such an incredible flyer. Truly. He made Seeker for the Junior team and everyone cheered. He looked so confident up there. He’s grown a lot since last year. Taller. Handsomer.
The words vanished as soon as she finished writing. New ink appeared, smooth and precise.
It sounds as though he was rather magnificent. You notice such things because you have a good eye, Ginny.
She smiled and wrote again, a little more hesitantly this time.
Some older girls keep watching him. Third and fourth years. They’re all pretty and sophisticated. I think he barely notices me at all. He still sees me as a little girl.
The reply came almost instantly.
That must hurt. But do not mistake their attention for worth. You are very pretty, Ginny Weasley. Potter is a fool if he cannot see that yet.
Her cheeks warmed at the words. She wrote on.
I love Quidditch. I really do. I can’t wait to try out next year. I think I’d make a good Chaser.
Of course you will. You have the passion for it, and the courage. Gryffindors always shine when they believe in themselves.
Ginny traced the words with her finger, feeling lighter than she had all day.
Goodnight, Tom
Goodnight, Ginny
September 18, 1994. Malfoy Manor
Draco was visiting his family home for the weekend, and he was furious.
He paced the drawing room, agitation sharp in every movement. “It isn’t fair,” he said for what felt like the tenth time. “Sirius Black’s bought the entire Gryffindor team Nimbus 2001s. And Potter...” his voice tightened, “Potter’s been given a Firebolt. A Firebolt!"
Narcissa looked up from her book, calm and composed. “That is quite enough, Draco.”
“It’ll give him an advantage,” Draco insisted. “A massive one. You have to buy me a Firebolt too. Just to even the odds.”
Narcissa set her book aside. “That is out of the question. Firebolts are far too fast. They’re unsuitable for a fourteen year old.”
“But Black gave one to Potter!” Draco snapped.
“Yes,” Narcissa replied coolly. “And Sirius Black has always been a reckless idiot. Just because he doesn’t care about the safety of his godson does not mean we are going to jeopardise you.”
Draco turned desperately to his father.
Lucius Malfoy sat in his chair by the window, reading the morning paper. He didn’t look up as he said, “Listen to your mother, Draco.”
Draco clenched his fists. “This gives Potter an unfair advantage. You know it does."
Lucius finally lowered the newspaper and regarded his son with faint irritation. “Can you not beat Potter on your Nimbus? Do you really need us to even the odds for you?” he asked mildly. Then, with a sneer, added, “Surely you’re the best at something.”
The words landed like a blow.
Draco said nothing more. His face burned as he turned sharply and stalked out of the morning room, the door closing behind him with a sharp crack that echoed through the Manor.
Narcissa found Draco in his room later that that day. He was standing by the window, his back to the door, shoulders rigid. She entered quietly. Before he could turn, she raised her wand and said calmly, “Legilimence.”
The spell struck.
Draco felt the familiar pressure behind his eyes, the invasive pull, the attempt to pry. He reacted instantly, erecting his mental walls. Cold. Smooth. Locked tight.
Narcissa pressed.
Images tried to surface, the Quidditch pitch, Potter on a Firebolt, his father’s voice dripping contempt, but Draco forced them down, sealed them away. He focused on stillness. On control. On nothing.
Minutes passed.
Narcissa pushed harder, probing for weakness, for cracks. Draco held. His jaw clenched, breath steady, mind closed like iron doors.
It was a full ten minutes before she was able to break through.
After exiting his mind, she lowered her wand and smiled. Not indulgently, but with clear approval.
“You’re getting better, Draco,” she said softly. “Much better.”
Draco exhaled slowly and allowed himself a small smile.
Not Potter. Not even that insufferable Mudblood Granger.
None of them could touch him here.
Occlumency was one skill where he was already leagues ahead. He truly was the best at it.
Narcissa patted his cheek affectionately before she made to leave. But she stopped midway, turned around, and said, "Your father ordered the Nimbus 2001s as soon as you confirmed that you were going to try for the Seeker's spot. There was never any doubt in his mind. Nor mine."
For the first time in days, Draco felt warm.
September 18, 1994. Grimmauld Place
Grimmauld Place lay quiet in the late afternoon as Harry and Sirius swept down into the courtyard on their brooms. Harry’s Firebolt cut through the air with effortless precision, its dark handle gleaming as he banked sharply and followed Sirius in a tight arc. Sirius rode his Nimbus 2000 with practiced ease, glancing back once to make sure Harry was still with him before dropping neatly toward the stone flagstones below.
They landed almost in unison.
Harry jumped off his broom, breathless and flushed, his cheeks red and his hair more windswept than usual. His hands were still tingling from the responsiveness of the Firebolt, every movement having translated instantly into motion. He grinned, unable to stop himself.
Remus stood a little distance away, arms folded, having watched the entire practice session in silence.
It had been his idea to have Harry fly controlled practice laps every weekend, before they allow him to take the Firebolt to the Quidditch pitch. When Sirius had first mentioned buying the racing broom, Remus had objected outright, arguing that the broom was too fast, too temperamental, too much for a fourteen year old. He had only relented when Sirius promised that he would fly alongside Harry, every weekend, until Remus was satisfied that Harry had complete control over his broom.
Now, as Harry dismounted safely, clearly exhilarated but steady on his feet, some of the tension eased from Remus’s shoulders.
Sirius swung off his Nimbus and flashed Remus a triumphant grin.
“Told you not to worry, Moony!”
Remus huffed softly, though there was relief in his expression as his eyes flicked once more to Harry, standing unharmed, glowing with exhilaration rather than recklessness.
They were just stepping into the drawing room when green flames flared in the fireplace. Ron and Hermione stepped out through the Floo, brushing ash from their sleeves.
Harry’s face lit up. He greeted them quickly, then, without hesitation, handed the Firebolt straight to Ron.
“Take it for a spin, Ron,” he said. “You’ll love it.”
Ron stared at the broom as though it might vanish if he blinked. Then he grinned - wide, disbelieving, utterly delighted and immediately moved toward the door.
“Hold on there Ron,” Remus said mildly.
Ron paused, halfway through turning.
“Sirius will accompany you,” Remus added. “Just like he did with Harry.”
Ron protested at once. “I’ll be fine! I’ve flown loads of times...”
Remus cut him off smoothly. “Molly Weasley will have my head and Sirius’s if she finds out we let you ride a Firebolt without adult supervision.”
He tilted his head slightly. “And I don’t know about this one, but I’m rather fond of having my head attached to my body.”
Hermione laughed. Harry did too.
Sirius groaned theatrically and rolled his eyes. “Come on, kid. These grown ups I tell ya..."
Ron didn’t need telling twice. He followed Sirius out, Firebolt clutched carefully in his hands.
Once the door closed behind them, Remus turned to Hermione.
“And as for you, young lady,” he said, “today we’ll work on your duelling stance.”
Hermione straightened at once. They headed toward the duelling hall.
October 10, 1994. Hogwarts Academic Wing
Professor Cassian Morven, who taught potions to first, second and thirds year, was teaching a mixed class of first year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs.
The students were focused and attentive, their cauldrons lining the stone benches. Ginny Weasley stood on her toes to peer into hers, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows, wand kept safely in her bag.
Professor Morven paced slowly between the rows, his dark robes whispering against the flagstones. He was younger than Ginny had expected a Hogwarts professor to be, with sharp dark eyes and hair streaked faintly with silver at the temples.
“Today,” Morven said, voice calm and precise, “you will be brewing a Basic Cure for Boils. It is a foundational potion. Simple in theory. Unforgiving in execution.”
He flicked his wand, and the instructions appeared on the blackboard in neat, glowing script.
Ginny read them carefully.
Add four crushed snake fangs.
Stir clockwise, three times.
Heat to medium.
Add horned slug mucus.
Remove from flame.
Stir counterclockwise until turquoise.
She measured everything exactly as written. Four snake fangs, crushed finely, not powdered. She stirred slowly, counting under her breath, trying not to let the cauldron wobble. The potion thickened, turning a dull grey.
Around her, other cauldrons began to shift colours. They ranged from pale blue to bright teal to one alarming shade of pink that earned a sharp rebuke.
Ginny removed her cauldron from the flame and added the slug mucus. She stirred counterclockwise, careful and deliberate.
The potion lightened. But it did not turn turquoise.
Instead, it settled into a light blue.
Ginny frowned, stirring a little more gently, then a little faster. Nothing changed. Her stomach twisted. She checked the instructions again, then her measurements, then the colour of the potion beside her. It was a perfect turquoise, shimmering faintly.
Professor Morven stopped at her bench.
He leaned over her cauldron, examining it without touching. “You followed the steps,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Ginny replied quickly. “I... I was careful.”
“I can see that.” He said kindly, “Your technique is sound. Your timing, however, needs work. You removed it from the flame a fraction too early.”
Ginny’s shoulders drooped.
Morven stirred her potion a bit, “Nothing catastrophic. No boils. No explosions. That already puts you ahead of several classmates.”
A few nervous laughs rippled through the room.
“You’ll need practice, Miss Weasley” he continued. “Potions is as much patience as precision. Don’t rush the brew simply because you want the result.”
Ginny nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He tapped her parchment with his wand. “Well done for today. Keep at it.”
As he moved on, Ginny looked back down at her cauldron. It wasn’t turquoise. But it was stable. It hadn’t gone completely wrong.
She squared her shoulders, picked up her quill, and wrote careful notes in the margin.
She would get it right next time.
After the period ended, Ginny spotted a familiar mess of dark hair, a few doors down the corridor. Harry.
He was stepping out of the second-year Transfiguration classroom, laughing softly at something someone had said. Ginny’s heart gave a small, hopeful leap, and she slowed, gathering her courage. Then she saw her.
A girl who had just descended the staircase, was approaching Harry from the opposite direction. She was older, graceful, with glossy black hair that fell perfectly down her back. She wore Ravenclaw blue and bronze, and there was an easy confidence in the way she walked.
Ginny recognised her instantly. She was Cho Chang. Ravenclaw Junior Seeker.
Harry turned fully towards her, his smile widening, and Ginny felt something heavy settle in her chest. They began to talk animatedly. Ginny couldn’t hear the words. but Harry’s expression was open, pleased and Interested.
She didn’t wait to be seen.
Before Harry could glance her way, Ginny turned sharply and walked in the opposite direction, head down, feet moving too quickly. The corridors blurred a little as she rounded the corner toward her next class, the weight in her chest pressing harder with every step.
She told herself it didn’t matter. But it did.
Harry stepped out of Transfiguration with his head still buzzing. Professor Glass’s class had been brutal. They had been meant to turn teapots into turtles. Or was it tortoises?
He honestly couldn’t remember which, and that probably said it all. His own attempt had resulted in a teapot that was still very much a teapot, only now with a warped spout and something disturbingly like leathery skin along the sides. Ugly. Thoroughly ugly.
He rubbed the back of his neck and wondered, not for the first time, how Hermione had done. Perfectly, no doubt. She probably hadn’t even hesitated.
“Hey, Harry.”
He looked up to see Cho Chang walking toward him. She was smiling, her long black hair catching the light from the high corridor windows.
“Oh...hi,” he said, a little flustered. “Er...how are Ravenclaw practices going?”
“Good,” Cho replied. “We’ve been drilling manoeuvres mostly. Our Captain’s very particular this year.” She tilted her head.
“How about Gryffindor?”
“Great,” Harry said quickly. "Wood's been… intense. But it’s good. Lots of laps.”
Cho laughed softly. “Sounds about right.”
They talked easily about Quidditch, brooms, formations, the way the wind shifted over the pitch at different times of day. Harry found himself relaxing without quite meaning to.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a flash of red hair. He glanced down the corridor.
Ginny was there, or had been. She was already turning away, disappearing into the flow of students heading toward the staircases.
“Ginny?” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
“What?” Cho asked.
“Oh... nothing,” Harry said, shaking his head. He looked once more, but Ginny was gone.
Ever since they’d come back to Hogwarts, she’d been doing that. Vanishing just when he thought she was nearby. Avoiding him.
He frowned slightly as he turned back to Cho, a small, uneasy question settling in his chest.
He couldn’t think what he’d done wrong.
October 10, 1994. Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts
Ginny waited until Amanda and Josephine were asleep, and the dormitory had gone quiet, before she pulled the diary out from beneath her pillow.
The cover felt cool beneath her fingers. Familiar now. She opened it and dipped her quill.
Dear Tom, Potions didn't go very well today.
The words vanished, new ink appeared.
What happened, Ginny?
She swallowed and kept writing.
We brewed a Cure for Boils. Mine never turned turquoise. I followed the instructions exactly, but it stayed this shade of light blue. Professor Morven said I tried hard, but that I need more practice.
That sounds frustrating. Potions can be very particular. A second too long on the heat, a clockwise stir instead of counter-clockwise, and everything changes. It doesn’t mean you aren’t good at it.
Ginny felt her shoulders loosen a little.
She wrote again, the words coming faster now.
I also saw Harry today. He was laughing with Cho Chang. She’s really pretty. She’s the Ravenclaw Seeker. I don’t think he even noticed I was there.
There was a pause this time. Longer than usual. Then...
I’m sorry, Ginny. That must have hurt.
But you shouldn’t be sad over Harry Potter. If he didn’t notice you, then it’s his loss. Not yours.
Ginny blinked hard and wrote.
Do you really think so?
Of course. You are clever, kind, and far more interesting than you realise. Older students often overlook what’s right in front of them.
She smiled faintly.
I wish I were better at Potions. My friend Luna seems so good at it.
The answer came at once.
I can help you if you'd like
Ginny froze, then leaned closer.
If you ever feel confused, just write it down. Tell me exactly what you don’t understand, and I’ll explain it properly. You have talent Ginny. You just need a better teacher.
Her heart began to beat faster.
Really, Tom? You’d do that?
Of course, Ginny. I'd be happy to help
Warmth spread through her chest. Relief, gratitude, something close to happiness.
Thank you, Tom. I mean it.
What are friends for? And we are friends, aren't we Ginny?
Of course Tom. You're my best friend. The best friend I've ever had.