Toil and Trouble Chapter 11 : In quiet places - Part 1 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)

“The Heart’s Road”: Edmond Ashworth Embarks on a Journey to Heal a Broken Britain

LONDON, 18 October : Beloved philanthropist and noted peace advocate Edmond Ashworth has announced an extraordinary new venture that has already stirred conversations across wizarding Britain and beyond. The initiative, titled “The Heart’s Road”, will see Mr. Ashworth travel through the regions of Britain and continental Europe most deeply scarred by the First Wizarding War, speaking directly to families who still live with the weight of grief, resentment, and loss.

In a statement delivered from his home in Cornwall on Monday morning, Ashworth declared, “I cannot bear to see our people bound by the bitterness of the past. We cannot rewrite history, we cannot change what had already occurred. But we can choose how we live with it. The time has come for us to forgive, not to forget, but to release ourselves from the chains of hatred.”

Ashworth’s journey, which begins later this month, will take him from Godric’s Hollow and Ottery St. Catchpole, to Alderwood, Tinworth, and onward through the lowlands of Belgium and southern Germany, where many wizarding families were displaced during the war. He plans to hold open gatherings, offer talks on reconciliation, and encourage communities to restore broken ties between Pureblood, Half-blood, and Muggle-born families.

When asked about his inspiration, Ashworth said simply, “I have met too many people who still dream of vengeance, or who cannot walk down a street without remembering who they lost. We cannot build a better world on old wounds. Forgiveness is not weakness. Rather, it is the courage to start again.”

The announcement has drawn admiration and curiosity, and some cynicism, from across Wizarding Europe. Among the first to offer public support was celebrated author and adventurer Gilderoy Lockhart, who praised the project in typically effusive fashion. “I wholeheartedly endorse everything Mr. Ashworth is doing for wizardkind!” Lockhart told The Prophet in an exclusive Floo interview. “Why, forgiveness is the most dazzling virtue of them all. And if anyone can inspire the public to embrace it, it’s dear Edmond. Such an admirable man!”

While Lockhart’s endorsement has amused some readers, others have expressed genuine excitement for what Ashworth represents. Daphne Smethwyk, a healer at St. Mungo’s who lost her brother in the war, said, “It’s about time someone reminded us that peace isn’t just the absence of Dark wizards. It’s also the mending of hearts.”

Officials from the Department of Magical Cooperation have confirmed they will provide logistical support for Ashworth’s travels through Europe, and several wizarding schools, including Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, have expressed interest in hosting his talks on forgiveness and reconciliation.

The journey is expected to last several months. According to Ashworth’s personal assistant, a small team of volunteers will accompany him, documenting his travels for a future publication titled The Heart’s Road : A Journey Toward Forgiveness.

As the wizarding world continues to navigate the lingering shadows of the war, Edmond Ashworth’s message seems poised to touch many lives. Whether it will truly heal the old wounds remains to be seen. But for now, the idea that forgiveness, too, can be an act of courage has found it's voice.

It was Monday morning, Remus and Harry had left for Hogwarts the evening before, taking the Floo to the castle. Both he and Siris had asked Harry if he was sure he didn't feel like staying home another day. Harry, of course, had waved off their concerns, saying he was just fine.

Now, Sirius sat alone at the breakfast table, sipping his tea as he read the newspaper article. His eyes moved over the words with a certain cold fure, as though he couldn’t decide which part of the piece fuelled his rage more.

Having finished his tea, Sirius balled up the newspaper, tossed it in the air, and with a smooth motion if his wand, set it ablaze.

October 18, 1993. The Great Hall, Hogwarts

Hermione Granger sat at her usual spot, removed from the others, on the Slytherin table. She had fallen into the habit of reading the paper over breakfast. A small luxury afforded to her by the simple fact that no one spoke to her. Ostracisation had its perks - it spared her the drudgery of small talk.

She had just finished reading the article about Edmond Ashworth’s new initiative.

Hermione admired the wizard. She truly did. She'd devoured his biography in her first week of entering Hogwarts, followed by any other bit of information about which she could get. A Muggle-born who had attained a position of such influence in the wizarding world and was now trying to change it for the better. His words were full of compassion, and the ideal of healing the wounds of war seemed a most noble one.

But as she stared at the words on the parchment, a shadow crossed her expression.

Forgive those who wronged them, the article said.

But how far did that go?

Would that forgiveness extend even to Death Eaters, the ones who had tortured and murdered Muggle-borns, and other magical beings whom they considered lesser? To those who wore the Dark Mark not out of fear, but pride?

She folded the paper slowly, her fingers tightening around the edges.

She knew what the war had been. She’d read everything she could find. The Ministry reports, the casualty lists, the testimonies from survivors. Even some material that wasn't Ministry approved. The scale of it reminded her of some of the worst genocides in the Muggle world.

Some things, she thought, should not be forgotten so easily.

The air in the first year Potions classroom was thick with the stench of burnt nettles and stewed horned slugs. Brass cauldrons hissed softly in the torchlight as the Slytherin first-years stirred their mixtures, each hoping their potion would turn the proper shade of turquoise.

“Watch your fire, Greaves,” said Professor Cassian Morven, stalking down the aisle. His dark eyes swept over the rows of bubbling cauldrons. “See that it doesn’t boil over."

Draco Malfoy worked in silence, his posture immaculate. His potion bubbled neatly, and the colour was perfect. His would surely be the best one, he thought smugly. He'd already brewed this potion, a standard cure for boils, at home under his private tutor.

A few tables away, Hermione Granger adjusted the flame under her cauldron. Her notes were covered in tiny, neat handwriting. She sprinkled in powdered porcupine quills after removing the cauldron from the heat — a detail most of the class had forgotten. The potion turned instantly clear turquoise, emitting a faint, pleasant scent.

Professor Morven stopped beside her and peered in.

“Very good, Miss Granger,” he said with approval. “Exactly the colour you should aim for. Most of your classmates have managed something between sewage and soup.”

Draco’s head snapped up. Her?

When the Professor checked Draco’s potion, he uttered no "Very good, Mr Malfoy", but a mere "Well done".

Draco was fuming.

When class ended, the students spilled out into the corridor, some laughing, others nursing mild burns from their first attempts. Draco caught up to Hermione.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you Granger?” he said sharply. “You really believe that sitcking your nose in some books means that you can equal a Pureblood?"

Stepping closer, he hissed in a whisper, so one else would hear him, "You're beneath me, Mudblood. Try as hard as you want, but you'll never be my equal".

Hermione’s expression was calm, but her voice was steady and cutting. “I wouldn’t bring myself down to your level in order to equal you, Malfoy.”

She then turned around and walked away without a glance.

Draco stood frozen, face pale with fury. Before he could lose his temper over the insult, he heard Goyle complaining about his shirt being ruined by his pathetic attempt at potion brewing.

"Oh shut up Goyle! Go annoy someone else with the tales of your stupidity!"

Without waiting for his followers to respond, he stormed off towards History of Magic.

Hermione went up the moving staircases to the first floor in the Slytherin Tower. The stairwell, much like a muggle escalator, moved on it's own, and Hermione got off on the first years' floor. She paused at one of the enormous windows to glance out to the grounds. At a the distant, the Quidditch pitch was alive with activity, as the Ravenclaw junior team played a practice match.

She'd read about Quidditch, of course. The rules fascinated her, but the game itself seemed unnecessarily violent. All that speed, the bludgers, the crashes. Still, she found herself watching, unable to look away from the graceful arcs of broomsticks cutting through the sky. It was the first time she had ever seen the sport played for real.

Her own broom lesson a month earlier had been a disaster. The memory made her wince. How the broom had refused to rise, no matter how clearly she commanded it. It had shuddered, twitched and remained stubbornly in the ground, as if recoiling from her touch. The laughter of the other students still rang in her ears. She had decided the next morning to drop the class. Some things, she reasoned, simply weren’t meant for her.

“What are you staring at, Granger?” drawled a voice behind her.

She turned slightly. Draco Malfoy leaned lazily against the wall, Pansy Parkinson at his side. His smirk was razor sharp. “Trying to figure out how they get their brooms to listen to them?” he added. Pansy’s shrill titter echoed off the stones.

Hermione straightened her spine. “I’d rather study something worthwhile than spend hours chasing balls in the air,” she said coolly, and walked away without another glance.

Her voice was steady, but her chest felt tight. The broom had rejected her. And she hated the way the thought stung.

Draco watched her go, the curve of her back unbent despite the mockery. He smirked at first, satisfaction blooming in his chest. The broom’s refusal had been proof, as clear as day, that blood told, and that magic knew its own. She wasn’t meant for this world.

But as he turned back to the window, his satisfaction faltered. Out on the pitch, the Ravenclaw Chaser, a Muggle-born boy, a third year named Aiden Robinson, darted past two Pureblood Beaters with effortless grace, his broom slicing through the air like silk. The few onlookers erupted in cheers.

Draco’s felt uneasy. For a moment, something inside him wavered. An uncomfortable crack in the certainty he’d been raised to carry. But he quickly shook it off.

Erect your walls, Draco. He heard his mother's voice say. Remember that all your doubts must stay behind them.

And so he did. He pushed the thought away, sealed it deep within, and let the smirk return to his lips. Sharp, cold, and empty.

October 18, 1993. Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts

The stairway up to the Gryffindor dorms was crowded that late-afternoon. Ron and Harry were going up still laughing about one of Seamus’s exploding chess blunders, when they had to flatten themselves against the wall.

A group of students in scarlet robes were coming down. They were the Gryffindor Junior Quidditch team. Second, third and fourth years, brooms slung over their shoulders, eyes bright with anticipation. At their head marched Oliver Wood, a stocky third year with windswept hair and the look of someone who took Quidditch far too seriously for his age.

“All right, team!” Wood was saying, voice echoing off the stone walls. “Today we focus on passing precision! We can’t afford another slip like last week. Digby, you know what I’m talking about, don't you. If that happens again in front of the Ravenclaws, we’ll be a laughingstock!”

Ron bit back a snort. Harry snickered and said, “He sounds like he’s leading an army, not a bunch of kids flying in circles,” he whispered.

Ron grinned. “Maybe he’ll make them run laps around the pitch if they drop the Quaffle.”

Wood carried on, oblivious. “Remember. Teamwork, timing, and tenacity! Three T’s. That’s what makes a champion!”

The team gave a dutiful chorus of “Yes, Captain!” as they trooped past. Fred and George, both beaters, slowed just long enough to hear Harry and Ron’s muffled laughter.

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Something funny, first years?”

George smirked. “You do know if you make the team next year, he’ll be your captain too.”

Harry and Ron froze. The image of being barked at by Oliver Wood three times a week wiped the grins right off their faces very quickly.

As the twins disappeared down the staircase, Ron groaned. “We’ll never survive that.”

Harry couldn’t help laughing again, but this time, it sounded a bit nervous.

The Gryffindor dormitory was unusually quiet that night. After dinner, Harry, Ron and Dean had spent nearly two hours bent over their Transfiguration essays. The desks by the window were cluttered with parchment rolls and half empty bottles of ink. Dean, who was rather good at Transfiguration, had patiently helped his two dorm mates.

By the time they were finally done, all three boys were yawning. They shoved their books aside, muttered a half-hearted “goodnight,” and climbed into bed.

Harry didn’t remember falling asleep.

He woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat.

“Harry... Harry wake up!" Someone was shaking him gently. Dean’s dark eyes glinted in the moonlight. “You were crying in your sleep, mate. Proper crying. Ron’s gone to fetch the Matron.”

Before Harry could answer, footsteps sounded on the stair, followed by the swish of robes. Mrs Whitby, one of the Gryffindor matrons, entered briskly with Ron close behind. Behind them came Professor McGonagall, her brow furrowed in concern.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Potter?” she asked softly, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Ron tells me you were having a nightmare.”

Harry hesitated. His throat felt dry. “It wasn’t just a nightmare, Professor. It... it felt real. I could hear them... talking.” He pressed a trembling hand to his scar. “It hurts. It really hurts."

McGonagall’s expression softened. She turned to Mrs Whitby. “Thank you, Gina. I’ll take it from here.”

The Matron nodded and left with Ron and Dean, who looked anxiously back at Harry.

“Come with me, Potter,” McGonagall said gently. “The Headmaster will want to know about this.”

She wrapped her tartan dressing gown tighter around herself as she led him out of the Tower. The castle was hushed and dim, only the portraits stirring from their slumber as they passed.

At the very top of the faculty tower, she paused before tapping her wand on the large oak door before them. It opened soundlessly.

Inside, Dumbledore’s drawing room glowed with warm candlelight. Shelves lined the walls and contained all sorts of curious things.

“Good evening, Minerva,” said Dumbledore, it seemed he'd been expecting them, “And good evening to you, Harry. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Harry sat, still rubbing his scar.

“I had a dream, Headmaster.” he whispered. “But it didn’t feel like a dream.”

Dumbledore leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Tell me everything you remember, my boy. Every sound, every feeling.”

Harry sat stiffly on Dumbledore’s comfortable sofa. Professor McGonagall sat right next to him.

Harry swallowed. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. “There was…. a Goblin,” he began. “But he looked… strange. Like he wasn’t really himself. He kept smiling, but his smile didn’t look right. It was....” He searched for the word. “it was just wrong. Like someone was making him do it.”

Dumbledore inclined his head slightly, his eyes calm but sharp behind the half-moon spectacles. “Go on.”

“The Goblin was talking to someone,” Harry continued. “I couldn’t see who it was. But he said something about a stone...."

McGonagall’s gaze flickered toward Dumbledore, but the Headmaster remained still. “Is there anything else you remember, Harry?” he asked quietly.

Harry thought for a second. “He did say something else. About a vault.... He said it was vault seven hundred and thirteen,” he then nodded with conviction. “Yes, that’s what he said.”

For a moment, there was complete silence. Dumbledore’s expression didn’t change, but Harry sensed Professor McGonagall growing a bit tensed.

“Thank you, Harry,” Dumbledore said after a long pause. “You’ve been very brave to tell me. I think you should return to your dormitory now and get some rest.”

Harry frowned. “But, Headmaster, what’s happening to me? Why do I keep seeing things like that? Why does my scar hurt?”

“You have nothing to be afraid of, my boy.” Dumbledore said softly. “Dreams, even the frightening ones, are often our mind’s way of showing us what it cannot yet explain. Rest now, and let your mind recover.”

McGonagall placed a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder and led him out.

When they reached Harry’s dorm room Madam Whitby was waiting with a vial of pale blue liquid. “A mild Calming Draught,” she said kindly. “You’ll sleep without dreams tonight.”

Harry drank it obediently. The warmth spread through his chest, softening the tightness in his throat.

Ron and Dean were sitting up in their beds, looking anxious.

“What was all that about?” Ron whispered. “McGonagall looked dead serious.”

Harry lay back against his pillow, eyes heavy. “I don’t know,” he murmured honestly. “I really don’t know.”