Toil and Trouble Chapter 19 : Unremembered hours - Part 1 of 3 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)

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October 24, 1994. The Great Hall, Hogwarts

Unrest Spreads in Peripheral Wizarding Communities

By Miranda Cresswell, Senior Correspondent

Concern is mounting across Wizarding Britain following a series of violent disturbances reported in and around several peripheral communities with historically high concentrations of non-traditional magical residents. Officials confirm that the most severe incidents have occurred near Thornemere Hollow, a mixed-settlement region long known for its tenuous integration into established wizarding governance.

According to preliminary reports from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, multiple altercations over the past fortnight have resulted in injuries to several half-blood and pure-blood wizards and witches, with property damage extending to private residences and longstanding magical landmarks. Auror patrols have since been increased in the area as a precautionary measure.

While investigations remain ongoing, sources within the Ministry indicate that the unrest may be linked to the activities of a small but organised band of rogue Muggle-borns, believed to have been operating independently of recognised magical institutions. These individuals are suspected of employing increasingly aggressive methods, raising concerns about the radicalisation of certain elements within already volatile communities.

“This appears to be a tragic but familiar pattern,” said one senior Ministry official, speaking on condition of anonymity. “When boundaries are tested and traditions disregarded, tensions inevitably rise. The Ministry’s priority is, as always, the safety of law-abiding witches and wizards.”

Notably, no fatalities have been confirmed at this time, though Healers at St Mungo’s, and other hospitals, report treating a number of patients suffering from curse-related injuries. The Ministry has declined to release further identifying details, citing the sensitivity of the situation and the need to avoid unnecessary panic.

Residents in neighbouring regions have expressed growing unease, with some calling for clearer safeguards and stronger oversight to prevent similar disturbances from spreading. Others have questioned whether existing integration measures have gone far enough to ensure mutual responsibility and respect within the magical community.

The Wizengamot is expected to convene later this month to discuss the situation, amid renewed debate over public safety, magical accountability, and the preservation of wizarding order during what many are calling a period of increasing uncertainty.

The Daily Prophet lay folded beside Hermione’s plate, its headline creased where she had pressed her thumb too hard against the parchment.

The Great Hall was already full, with the clatter of cutlery and the low roar of conversation, but Hermione registered it only distantly. Her eyes moved back over the article, slower this time, less as a reader and more as an examiner.

She had learned, over the past year, how much could be said without ever being stated.

Peripheral communities.

Her gaze lingered on the paragraph listing the injured. Half-bloods. Pure-bloods. The phrasing was careful, almost courteous. Names omitted. Details deferred. And yet, there it was again, the quiet absence.
No Muggle-borns mentioned as victims. Only as a collective problem.

Non-traditional magical residents.

Hermione exhaled slowly and folded the paper inward, obscuring the headline but not discarding it. Discarding implied dismissal. This required memory.

She remembered Edmond Ashworth's speech well enough.

Forgiveness is the cornerstone of magical society, he'd said.

We move forward by refusing to be defined by old divisions.

Suspicion only breeds further harm.

She found those ideas to be admirable. She knew them to be sensible. Necessary, even.
But there were always those times when she wondered who forgiveness was meant to serve.

She imagined Thornemere Hollow as it must actually be. Not the abstracted place of the article, but a real one. She wondered how many incidents had gone unreported before violence became the only language left to them.

And how many would be reported now. Selectively.

Truth, she was learning, did not arrive fully formed. It had to be sought. And often, it had to be sought from people willing to admit what the official record would not.

Her thoughts drifted, inevitably, to Arthur Weasley. He would know, she thought. Or at least, he would know how to ask without being punished for it. He had access, not the kind that announced itself, but the kind that listened.

Yule break was only a few weeks away.
Hermione folded the newspaper neatly and slid it into her bag. She would ask Mr Weasley then.

---

October 24, 1995. Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch

The late October wind over the Quidditch pitch was sharp enough to sting, whipping across the stands and rattling the goal hoops with a hollow, metallic clang. The Gryffindor junior team stood in a loose semicircle, brooms tucked under arms, shoulders hunched against the cold.

Oliver Wood, by contrast, looked invigorated.
“RIGHT!,” he bellowed, clapping his hands together with a crack that echoed across the pitch. “Before we start, I want everyone to remember why we’re here.”

Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His fingers tightened around his broom handle.

Beside him, Katie Bell stared resolutely at a distant patch of sky, her expression one of profound spiritual endurance.

“We are not here,” Oliver continued, pacing back and forth like a general addressing troops before battle, “to fly around.”

Harry closed his eyes.

“We are not here to have fun.”

Katie inhaled slowly through her nose.

“We are here,” Oliver said, jabbing a finger at the air for emphasis, “to build discipline. Precision. UNITY.”

He stopped abruptly in front of them, eyes blazing.

“Because Quidditch,” he declared, “is WAR.”

There was a brief, brittle silence.

Harry cracked one eye open and glanced sideways at Katie. She met his gaze. One eyebrow twitched upward in a silent help me.

From behind them, Fred and George Weasley leaned casually on their brooms, mirroring each other with uncanny precision. Fred caught Harry’s eye and offered a slow, sympathetic smirk. George followed it up with an exaggerated nod. Welcome to hell.
Oliver resumed pacing.

“Now,” he said, voice dropping into what he clearly believed was a gravely inspiring register, “I’ve been thinking about our formation.”

Harry’s stomach sank.

“We’ve been predictable,” Oliver continued, “Safe. Comfortable.”

No one spoke. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cawed.

“That ends today.”

Katie’s mouth tightened.

“We’re going to run the Hawkshead Attacking Formation,” Oliver announced, “but faster. Tighter. With zero margin for error.”

Angelina Johnson raised a hand. “Isn’t that the one that requires everyone to fly within about half a metre of each other at full speed?”

“Yes,” Oliver said brightly.

“And didn’t the Holyhead Harpies ban it after three broken collarbones?”, asked Parvati.

Oliver waved this off. “Details.”

Fred leaned toward George. “I give it five minutes.”

“Generous,” George murmured.

Oliver turned sharply. “If anyone is feeling nervous,” he said, eyes scanning the group, “now would be a good time to remember that fear is just the body’s way of sharpening the mind.”

Harry bit the inside of his cheek.

“Right then!” Oliver clapped his hands again. “Mount up!”

As brooms swung between legs and the team prepared to launch, Harry caught Katie’s eye once more.

“If I die,” he muttered under his breath, “tell my owl I loved her.”

Katie snorted despite herself. “If I die,” she replied, “I’m haunting Oliver first.”

Fred and George kicked off simultaneously, whooping as they rose into the air.

“Told you,” Fred called cheerfully. “Hell.”

By the time Oliver finally called an end to practice, the Gryffindor team looked as though they had survived a minor natural disaster.

“Good work,” Oliver said, beaming, as if none of them were trembling slightly from exertion. “We’ll run it again tomorrow.”

A collective groan rose from the team as they dismounted, boots crunching against the frost-hardened grass.

Harry slung his Firebolt over his shoulder and turned toward the changing rooms, and nearly collided with the front edge of the incoming Slytherin junior team.

Green and silver streamed onto the pitch with military neatness, brooms gleaming, expressions cool and evaluative. At their head, right beside Captain Marcus Flint, was Draco Malfoy, immaculate as ever, his gaze flicking immediately, inevitably, to Harry’s broom.

“Well,” Draco drawled, lips curling into something sharp and humourless, “I see Gryffindor’s decided to compensate early this season.”

Harry stopped. So did everyone else.

He looked down at the Firebolt, then back up at Draco, tilting his head thoughtfully.

“Funny,” Harry said mildly. “I was just thinking the same thing. Is that the best model your father could get legally these days?”

A beat.

Fred choked on a laugh. George didn’t even bother to hide his grin.

Draco’s smile tightened. “Careful, Potter. That broom might be fast, but it won’t help you if you can’t keep your seat.”

Harry’s eyes flicked briefly to Draco’s own broom, then back to his face.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve noticed Slytherins tend to fall off when things don’t go exactly their way.”

The air crackled, not with magic, but with the familiar, electric tension of old rivalry sharpened by something newer and less playful.

For a moment, it looked as though Draco might walk away.

Then he smiled - cold, controlled.

“Enjoy it while you can, Potter,” he said softly. “Brooms have a way of changing hands.”

Harry stepped closer, just enough to make the point land.

“So do victories,” he replied.

Behind them, Parvati had entered Prefect mode, “Right! Off the pitch, Gryffindors! Lets go.”

Harry turned away without another glance, Firebolt light against his shoulder.

As they left, Fred leaned in. “Ten points for tone.”

“Twenty for accuracy,” George added with a grin. Harry grinned back.

---

October 28, 1994. Hogwarts Academic Wing

Professor Marcella Mulqueen, the first and second year Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher, did not raise her voice. She never needed to.

The cage on her desk rattled violently, thin iron bars shuddering as something small, blue, and deeply malicious hurled itself against them from the inside.

"Does anyone know what these are?", the professor asked.

Hermione Granger's hand immediately went up in the air.

"Cornish Pixies", Hermione replied, "Juveniles, judging by the pitch of the shrieking."

"Yes, correct", after a pause the professor added, "Five points to Slytherin.

Her eyes roamed over the rest of the class.

“Today,” she said calmly, “you will each face a single Pixie.”

A collective intake of breath rippled through the Slytherin benches.

“You will not,” Mulqueen continued, “be rescued unless you are in genuine danger. You will not be paired. And you will not attempt anything beyond basic defensive spells. Is that understood?"

Several heads nodded.

The Pixies screamed louder, as if offended by the restraint implied.

“Pixies,” Mulqueen said, “are not Dark creatures. But they are malicious, fast, and irritating, which makes them excellent teachers for basic defence."

Her wand tapped the cage once.

“I will release them one at a time.”
A pause.

“If anyone screams,” she added mildly, “they will repeat the exercise at the end of class.”

Pansy Parkinson swallowed audibly, and grabbed Draco Malfoy’s hand. He, without sparing her a glance, detached his hand from hers.

Rowan Hale went first.

The Pixie burst from the cage like a tiny blue projectile, cackling shrilly as it zig-zagged toward him. Rowan yelped, raised his wand too late, and lost it entirely as the Pixie snatched it mid-air and flung it across the room.

Laughter erupted.

“Expelli...” Rowan shouted helplessly, empty handed, as the Pixie yanked his hair and cackled mockingly.

Mulqueen flicked her wand.

“Enough.”

The Pixie froze mid-cackle, having been immobilised.

“Retrieve your wand, Mr Hale,” she said. “And your dignity.”

Lysandra Quince fared little better.

Her Pixie swooped low, shrieking gleefully as it looped around her head and tugged viciously at her plait.

“Protego!” Lysandra cried.

The shield flared, half a second too late, and the Pixie bounced off it backwards, stunned more by surprise than spellwork.

Mulqueen raised an eyebrow. “Effective. Eventually.”

Lawrence Bradshaw squared his shoulders when his turn came, jaw set.

“Stupefy!”
The Pixie darted aside.

“Stupefy!”

It laughed, flew upside down, and slapped him across the cheek.

The third attempt struck its wing.

The Pixie spiralled into the desk leg and dropped. Then glared up at the boy, very indignantly.

Bradshaw exhaled sharply, looking faintly betrayed by the effort required.

Mellicent Bulstrode's Pixie proved subtler.
It hovered just out of range, snickering, until she lunged, and it yanked her wand straight out of her grip.

The Pixie brandished it triumphantly.

“Oh no,” someone murmured.

The Pixie pointed the wand at Bulstrode and squealed.

Before it could attempt anything catastrophic, Mulqueen stunned it cleanly out of the air.

“That,” she said coolly, “is why we do not underestimate small things.”

Pansy Parkinson went pale when her Pixie was released.

It flew straight at her face. She squealed.

Mulqueen didn’t even sigh, she stepped in, wand flicking sharply.

The Pixie froze inches from Pansy’s nose.
“Sit” Mulqueen said. “We will revisit this later.”

Pansy fled back to her seat.

Blaise Zabini watched his Pixie carefully. The first spell, he missed. The second barwly grazed a wing. The third was a clean hit.

The Pixie dropped like a stone.

Mulqueen inclined her head. “Good spellwork.”

Draco’s turn followed.

His jaw tightened. He waited, and struck on the second attempt, timing the Pixie’s dive perfectly, and successfully stunned it.

Mulqueen nodded approvingly. "Well done", she said.

Daphne Greengrass raised her wand and cast Stupefy immediately.

The spell flew past the Pixie she was supposed to stun, and went straight into the cage.

A Pixie still inside collapsed with a tiny shriek.

There was a beat. Then laughter.
Mulqueen’s mouth twitched. “Impressive spellwork. But you require spatial awareness, Miss Greengrass.”

Daphne flushed. “Yes, Professor.”

Hermione Granger did not hesitate.

The Pixie barely cleared the cage before she snapped, “Immobulus". The incantation was as clear as her wand movement was confident.

The creature froze mid-air, arms flailing uselessly. Silence followed.

Mulqueen looked at Hermione with open interest. “Efficient,” she said. “Textbook application.”

Hermione inclined her head and went back to her seat without comment.

Vincent Crabbe went last.

The Pixie took his wand immediately, and raised it. Crabbe let out a comical yelp. Mulqueen stunned the Pixie before it could attempt spellcasting.

Professor Mulqueen closed the cage with a precise click. The Pixies inside shrieked in frustrated unison as the locking charm settled, the iron bars dulling to a sullen grey. For a moment, she simply stood there, hands resting on the desk, eyes sweeping over the class.

“Overall,” she said evenly, “adequate. A few students did stand out."

After a beat, “Mr Malfoy.” Her gaze flicked to Draco. “Fifteen points to Slytherin. For controlled and deliberate spellcasting.”

Draco inclined his head, satisfaction carefully muted.

“Mr Zabini.” She turned. “Ten points. Good judgment. Clean execution.”

Blaise acknowledged it with a faint smile, already relaxed.

“Miss Greengrass.” Mulqueen’s tone did not change. “Ten points for spell strength, despite misdirected focus.”

Daphne nodded with a small smile, relief flooding her expression.

There was a pause.

Hermione felt it before her name was spoken, the slight tightening in the air, the way Mulqueen’s fingers curled once against the edge of the desk.

“Miss Granger, your response,” Mulqueen said, carefully measured, “was immediate. Appropriate. And effective.”

Another pause. Shorter this time.

“Twenty points to Slytherin.”

Hermione inclined her head in acknowledgment, expression unreadable.

“Lesson concluded,” she said. “Your homework is two feet of parchment on Pixie containment”

Hermione wrote it down before the ink had finished drying. Some lessons, she had already learned, were better absorbed early.