Toil and Trouble Chapter 15 : The many shapes of brilliance - Part 2 of 3 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)
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March 1, 1994. Diagon Alley
The day had fallen into that soft, late afternoon gold by the time they reached Disgon Alley. There were shoppers everywhere and the air smelt faintly of sugar, smoke, and something sharp from the apothecary two shops down.
Ron, Harry, Hermione Fred and George were allowed to come down to Diagon to have a small birthday celebration. Percy was with them, though he'd made it clear he was accompanying them as a Prefect.
Ron walked ahead with Fred and George, pretending not to look excited. He was doing a fairly terrible job of it.
Hermione noticed how his scarf was wrapped twice instead of once today. How he kept shoving his hands in and out of his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. Fourteen today, and he was trying so hard not to act like it mattered.
They ducked into a little wizarding café just off the main street. Butterbeer arrived warm and foaming. Someone had conjured floating candles above the tables, and a small chocolate cake appeared in front of them. Courtesy of the twins, complete with a crooked, flickering “14” dancing over the icing.
“Blimey,” Ron said, grinning despite himself. “You didn’t have to..."
“We absolutely did,” George replied. “It’s a public service.”
Fred leaned close. “Everyone should be forced to acknowledge surviving another year of you, Ronniekins.”
Even Percy’s mouth twitched a little, though he hid it behind his cup. He'd given Ron his present earlier that day. A new set of quills.
When the cake and butterbeers were gone, and the mugs stood empty, Harry cleared his throat.
“Hey, um... guys,” Harry said, casual as he could manage. “Ron needs to come with Hermione and I”
Ron blinked. “I do?”
“Its a surprise” Hermione said, already standing. "Come on".
"Hermione, I trust you to bring them back soon", Percy said, speaking of the boys as if they were toddlers, "do remember that we are expected back at the Castle by six-thirty".
Before Ron could voice his annoyance, Hermione said, "we'll be back soon, Percy. Don't worry."
Fred grinned. “Don’t break him,” he called as they walked away.
They moved in silence at first, the noise of Diagon Alley swelling around them, vendors calling out prices, a cat hissing from a windowsill, owls rustling in a nearby cage. Ron finally spoke when they slowed down.
“Where are we going?”
Neither of them answered, simply exchanging conspiratorial smiles.
When they stopped in front of Ollivanders, Ron just stared at the shop front.
“No,” he said immediately. “No, absolutely not. I can’t take a wand from you two.”
“It’s your birthday,” Hermione said gently.
“That’s too much" he insisted. “They cost seven Galleons and… I don’t need a wand, I just..."
“Ron,” Harry interrupted softly. “Your wand barely works, mate" It’s been like that for months. We’re not doing this because we feel sorry for you. We’re doing it because you’re our friend.”
Ron looked between them. His ears were bright red now.
“…You swear you’re not just doing this because you think I’m hopeless?”
“We’d do it even if you were brilliant,” Hermione said. “Which… occasionally you are.”
That made him snort despite himself.
“…Alright,” he muttered. “Fine."
The bell above the door tinkled as they stepped inside.
Mr. Ollivander emerged from between the stacks like a ghost summoned by the sound of potential.
“Ah… Mr. Weasley,” he said, pale eyes settling on him. “I was wondering when you'd finally come to me for a wand of your own".
Ron shrugged awkwardly. "I was using Charlie's old wand, sir. But my friends insist I get a new one for my birthday."
“Well, then. Let us find the right one.”
Ron tried about a dozen wands of various woods and cores. The results ranged from hilarious to concerning. Hermione watched, tense, as Ron’s frustration built. His fingers tightened around each new wand as if daring it to work.
“Sorry,” he muttered after the twelfth attempt. “This is stupid.”
“No,” Ollivander said, intent. “It is telling.”
He gazed thoughtfully at his stack of boxes before magically summoning one from the top.
“Willow,” he said quietly as he took out the wand. “Fourteen inches. Unicorn hair. These wands often choose witches and wizards who have something to prove".
Ron took it carefully.
The moment his fingers closed around the wood, warmth rushed along his arm. It was soft, steady, unmistakable. Golden light glowed at the tip. Not wild. Not furious. Just… right. It was unlike anything he had ever felt with Charlie's old wand.
Even the air seemed to settle around him.
“It’s… listening,” he whispered.
Hermione felt a strange, powerful relief flood through her. "Try it, Ron", she said.
Ron swished and flicked and spoke the incantation, "Wingardium Leviosa". Immediately, the empty wand box before him began to levitate.
"Oh well done, Mr Weasley!", said Ollivander, genuinely pleased.
Harry grinned, something proud shining in his eyes. “Looks like it chose you, mate.”
Ollivander nodded, “Indeed it has. And it has chosen wisely.”
Harry and Hermione swapped smiles of relief and joy as they each placed three Galleons and fifty Sickles on the counter. When they stepped back onto the street, Ron no longer held the wand like a borrowed stick.
He held it like it belonged to him.
And for the first time in a long while, he walked with his head properly high.
March 20, 1994. The Hogwarts Grounds
The grounds were transformed. Gone was the damp grey of winter. In its place spread a hopeful palette of ribbons knotted into bare branches, pastel lanterns floating like captured dawns, garlands of spring flowers twined around the stone balustrades overlooking the lake. Long wooden tables had been set across the lawn, covered in bowls of paint, brushes, ribbons, gold leaf, and baskets of smooth white eggs.
Ostara had arrived.
Students laughed, their voices mingling with the smell of fresh grass and warm honeyed cakes drifting from the Great Hall. Somewhere, a group of Hufflepuffs had coaxed a cluster of baby chicks to follow them in a shimmering little parade. Fireflies had already begun to blink into existence in the shadowy hedges along the Black Lake.
Hermione sat cross-legged on a blanket beside three Ravenclaw girls Padma Patil, Cho Chang, and Selene Anderson, a small spread of eggs arranged carefully on a cloth between them.
“Hermione, you're painting it the muggle way? By hand?” Selene asked, watching. Hermione was about to get defensive, but then she looked at the brown haired girl and saw that there was no distaste on her face, just curiosity.
“Painting it is just the beginning,” Hermione replied. "Watch".
She dipped the brush into indigo pigment, drew a thin spiral around the egg, then she pointed her wand at it, and whispered a soft incantation under her breath. The painted line shimmered, lifted itself slightly from the shell… and began to move. Some of the designs began to make geometrical patterns.
The delicate vines she'd drawn, curled around the egg, unfurling tiny silver leaves and pale blue blossoms as if spring itself were waking in them.
Cho’s eyes widened. “Oh that's lovely!"
“It’s responding to intent,” Hermione said quietly. “You’re not forcing the magic. You’re inviting it.”
Padma leaned over her shoulder. “Show us the incantation.”
Hermione hesitated for the faintest moment, then smiled. “It’s not the word that matters most. It’s the image you hold.”
She handed Padma the brush. “Think of something you want to see bloom.”
Padma concentrated, her tongue caught slightly between her teeth as she brushed a golden circle on an egg. When she whispered the charm, the gold burst outward into rays. Sunlight etched in miniature, intricate and warm.
Cho said excitedly, “Alright, my turn.”
Hermione guided her hand, adjusting the angle slightly. Selene followed next, creating a pattern of stars that softly pulsed in quiet rhythm.
Soon, a dozen eggs rested between them, no two alike. Living little worlds born from thought and careful magic.
“Are you sure you’re only fourteen, Hermione?" Selene murmured. “You don’t speak like a first year.”
Hermione smiled faintly, a softness in her expression reserved only for moments like this. “Magic doesn’t care how old you are. Only how much attention you give it.”
Padma looked at her, something like respect settling in her gaze. “I’m glad you’re with us today, Hermione. We always get to learn from you.”
The girls were just laughing and having fun painting their eggs when the atmosphere shifted. A shadow fell over the blanket. Hermione looked up to see Pansy Parkinson standing there, arms folded, lips drawn into a familiar sneer, a pale spring ribbon tied in her shiny, long black hair. Beside her loomed Millicent Bulstrode, large and sour-faced.
“Well,” Pansy drawled, her eyes flicking over the eggs on the cloth, “I must say I’m impressed, Granger. Painting eggs by hand like a filthy Muggle. How very….beastly of you.”
Cho stiffened. Selene looked nervous.
Padma, however, was already on her feet.
“Why don’t you crawl back to whatever hole you came from, Parkinson? You wouldn’t recognise magical talent if it bit you on that stupid face of yours.”
Several nearby students glanced over, tension prickling in the warm air.
Pansy’s mouth curved into a thin, venomous smile. “Such language from a Ravenclaw."
And as she said it, Millicent moved. Her large hand darted down, scooping up several of Hermione’s enchanted eggs from the cloth. One of the tiny silver blossoms winked in surprise as it was grabbed. Then Millicent turned and bolted, heavy footsteps thudding as she ran, heading straight towards a distant greenhouse.
For a moment, Hermione simply stared at the empty space on the cloth, unable to believe this act of utter childishness.
Then she looked up at Pansy.
“Seriously Parkinson?” she said, with genuine disbelief.
Pansy only shrugged, already stepping back. “Finders keepers,” she said lightly. “If your magic was really any good, perhaps it would have protected them.”
She turned and walked away, swaying slightly, clearly pleased with herself.
"Unbelievable", Hermione said shaking her head. She stood, brushing the grass from her robes.
“I’m going to get our eggs back,” she said calmly.
Padma stepped beside her instantly. “I’ll come with you.”
“There’s no need.” Hermione’s voice was cool, “I can handle someone as pathetic as Millicent Bulstrode.”
Her eyes flicked once toward the distant greenhouses, where faint movement could be seen between glass and leaves.
“I’ll be right back.”
The air inside the greenhouse was hot, damp, and thick with the scent of earth and leaves and flowers. Condensation beads against the glass.
“Millicent?” Hermione called, “This is ridiculous. Give those eggs back.”
A shadow shifts near one of the long potting benches.
Millicent stands there, clutching Hermione’s painted eggs to her chest, eyes wide like she’s been cornered.
“You think you’re so clever,” Millicent mumbles. “Always showing off. Like you’re better than us.”
“I am better than you, idiot,” Hermione snaps, her temper breaking through. “Now hand them over.”
Millicent backs up a step. Then another.
Hermione’s hand moves to her wand instantly.
“Incarcerous!”
Rope shot from the tip of her wand, wrapping itself around Millicent’s arms, torso, legs. Millicent yelped as she fell to the ground, bound.
Hermione strode forward and knelt, yanking the eggs from Millicent’s grip.
“Honestly,” she said, voice low with disbelief. “You're almost fourteen and you're pulling such ridiculous pranks. How do you not feel embarrassed of yourself?”
Millicent struggled, face red, furious but helpless.
“You think you’re special,” she hissed, “You’re nothing. Just a freak that got lucky.”
Hermione didn’t even bother responding. She stood, eggs secure in her arms, and flicks her wand again.
“Finite.”
The ropes vanished. Millicent scrambled up immediately and bolted for the door, practically tripping over herself in her haste to escape.
Hermione was about to rejoin her friends when...
“FINITE INCANTATUM.”
The voice sliced through the air behind her.
Her blood turns to ice when she saw Warren Mulciber. Before she even registered what had happened, the ground beneath her feet began to move. The soft grass and moss faded away as if being peeled back.
Under it, was a writhing mass of thick, dark green vines. Devil’s Snare.
Her eyes widened in horror.
“No..." She cried out in horror.
Vines twisted violently around her ankles, yanking her legs out from beneath her. She hit the ground hard as more tendrils snaped up around her wrists, her waist, her chest.
She fought and kicked in an attempt to free herself. Her mind raced as she tried to think of how to kill Devil’s Snare. She was about to scream for help when a vine whiped across her mouth, sealing it shut. Another began to tightened around her throat.
She tried to reach her wand but her arm was pinned against the earth. The vines felt cold and slick, tightening each time she struggled.
Mulciber watched her with a satisfied smile on his face.
"Don't worry, Mudblood", he said with mock gentleness, "it won't take long", before he turned around and walked away.
Padma noticed that Hermione had been gone far longer than expected. She set her half decorated egg aside and turned to Cho and Selene.
“I’m going to look for her,” she said quietly, already stepping away.
She moved quickly toward the greenhouses, her unease growing with every step. Partway across the grounds, Parvati spotted her and walked over, seeing the worried look on her face.
“Padma, what’s wrong?” she asked, catching her sleeve.
“Akka, Hermione went after Millicent Bulstrode,” Padma replied, her voice tight. “She hasn’t come back.”
Parvati’s expression darkened. “Then I’m coming with you.”
Together, they checked the first greenhouse, then the second, calling Hermione’s name softly. There was no answer. Then they heard what sounded like muffled cries coming from the last greenhouse. They two sisters rushed in and saw something nightmarish.
Hermione almost completely buried beneath coils of Devil’s Snare. Dark green vines had wrapped themselves around her and were only getting tighter.
Parvati reacted without hesitation. “Incendio!”
Flames burst from the tip of her wand, licking along the nearest vines. With an angry, rustling recoil, several of them shrank back, but others tightened stubbornly, still wrapped around Hermione’s arms and torso. Her face, now visible, was flushed a frightening red, eyes tearful and wide with panic.
“Hermione, stop struggling!” Parvati shouted.
A heartbeat passed. Then another. Slowly, Hermione forced herself to go still. As her breathing steadied, the Devil’s Snare responded, loosening its grip. One by one, the vines slipped away, retreating across the floor until they lay dormant again.
Hermione collapsed onto her knees, gasping for air, trembling violently.
Parvati and Padma rushed to her side. Up close, they could see the damage. There were thin, angry cuts crisscrossing her skin where the thorns had dug in, dark bruises already blooming across her arms and legs.
“We’re taking you to the Hospital Wing,” Parvati said, her voice tight but steady as she helped Hermione to her feet.
Hermione sat on the hospital bed in a daze, as the Head Healer, Madam Pompfrey, applies healing salves on her wounds. She didn’t even remember the long walk rheyd made from the greenhouse to the hospital wing.
What she did remember was that sick smile on Warren Mulciber's face as the Devil’s Snare engulfed her. That he was glad to see her being suffocated. That he wanted her dead. And the fact that Parkinson and Bulstrode had been in on the whole plan.
Their strange behaviour makes sense now she thought distantly.
Hermione knew that the Purebloods in Slytherin despises her. Today, though, she saw just how deep that hatred truly ran.
They wanted her dead. They hated her enough to want her dead.
Maybe not all of them. Maybe not even most of them.
But there were those in her House who wished her harm.
And it was because they saw her as inferior. As someone whose existence alone was abhorrent.
The knowledge stirred a cold, steady fury inside her. She felt it course through her blood, her so-called dirty blood, and settle somewhere deep within. Quiet and patient.
Ron had never felt so light in his life.
The Comet was old - splintered handle, frayed bristles, a slight wobble that made it creak in protest every time he leaned too hard to the left. But it was still a broom. And it was his for the afternoon. Wind tore through his hair as he shot across the lake, whooping as Fred swooped past him in a blur of red hair and triumph.
“Try to keep up, little brother!” Fred called.
“Careful, Ronnie, that thing might disintegrate if you go any faster!” George added, laughing.
Ron grinned viciously and pushed the Comet harder, the wood vibrating beneath his palms. It responded with a strained groan and a sudden burst of speed. He whooped again, heart slamming against his ribs, the world below smearing into green and gold. For once, he wasn’t the one lagging behind. For once, he wasn’t being outshone.
On the ground, Harry stood with Dean and Seamus, clapping and laughing as Ron looped around the pitch. None of them were fourteen yet, and were yet to get their flying licences.
Ron had just managed a messy, crooked barrel roll, and Fred had whooped his approval, when he spotted someone running toward them. It was Padma Patil. Even from the air, Ron could see the panic on her face.
“Oi! Padma!” he shouted, slowing and dipping lower. “What’s wrong?”
Padma didn’t waste breath on pleasantries. “Ron, it's Hermione. She’s been attacked! Millicent Bulstrode and Pansy Parkinson tricked her into going into a greenhouse and... and she got caught in Devil’s Snare... Parvati and I found her when it had nearly strangled her. She’s in the Hospital Wing. She's injured but OK...."
Anger and fear slammed into Ron all at once, stealing the air from his lungs. Devil’s Snare. He didn’t even bother landing properly, he just kicked off and jumped, hitting the grass in an awkward sprawl before scrambling up again.
“Harry!” he yelled. “Hospital Wing... now! It's Hermione!"
Harry was already moving, face pale, eyes sharp with fear.
The boys ran with Padma all the way to the hospital. Once there, they saw that Hermione had been bandaged and was taking some potions. Parvati was standing next to her protectively.
Hermione was eerily calm as she told them what Warren Mulciber had done. Her tone was steady as she recounted the attack in detail.
Madam Pompfrey listened with her featured hardening. Though she remained composed, her eyes held something close to disgust. Not towards Hermione, but what had been done to her.
The Head Healer had personally gone to Headmaster Dumbledore and filed a complaint. This had resulted Millicent Bulstrode and Warren Mulciber getting suspended for two weeks. Pansy Parkinson had gotten off with a slap on the wrist - three days' detention. This was mainly because her father, Bernard Parkinson one of the wealthiest men in Wizarding Britain and a member of the Wizengamot, had insisted that his sweet, innocent little girl would never do anything unsavoury. Slytherin
Harry, Ron, Parvati and Padma had been outraged when they heard about such laughable punishments being awarded to the culprits. Hermione wasn't. To her, this provided all the reasoning she needed.
April 29, 1994. Hogwarts Castle
The day dawned strangely at Hogwarts.
Not dark. Not stormy. There was no omen in the sky, no crack of thunder or tremor in the ground. And yet, strange occurrences... occurred. As though some invisible thread had been drawn just a little too taut.
Millicent Bulstrode discovered it first.
She was halfway down the marble staircase, talking to Daphne Greengrass, when her boots caught. She staggered. Recovered. Staggered again. Then, her laces twisted of their own accord, binding together in a sudden, impossible knot. And she fell.
The sound carried. A thud, followed by a howl of pain. Professors hurried in. Students peered over bannisters. A nurse was summoned.
A badly sprained ankle, the nurse announced,
Someone muttered it was clumsiness. Someone else murmured about faulty stitching in Hogsmeade boots.
But Daphne Greengrass could have sworn that she'd seen the shoelaces move.
Hermione Granger passed the bottom of the staircase just minutes later, walking briskly with her books in her hands. She didn’t even stop to see why Bulstrode was bawling. She needed to get to Potions.
In Potions, the air remained strangely volatile.
Pansy Parkinson stood at her cauldron, lips drawn tight as she chopped her ingredients, when the flame under her cauldron leapt.
It surged upward, blue and violent, swallowing the rim of the cauldron. The potion roiled. Popped. Then exploded. A shrill cry of terror and agony filled the room.
Even Draco Malfoy looked mildly concerned.
Pansy’s scream echoed long after the fire had been smothered.
The burns were not fatal. Not permanent. But angry and stinging. And certainly very painful.
“I dont know how it happened" she insisted through tears later, while Madam Pomfrey worked cooling salve into her skin.
And far away, Hermione Granger joined her friends so that they may watch the Slytherin vs Hufflepuff Juniors Quidditch match together. Even though Quidditch wasn't something she was particularly interested in.
Warren Mulciber sat in the stands, wrapped in thick green robes, laughing too loudly at the stumbles of the Hufflepuff Keeper. Autumn wind tangled through the banners. The sun dipped behind a cloud.
And then smoke curled from the hem of his sleeve.
At first he wondered what was burning. Then he looked down, the flame had already taken purchase on the edge of his robe.
He yelped. Leapt to his feet. Hands swatting frantically as students scrambled away. A nearby prefect doused him with a wand snap of water.
The damage, again, was not irreparable.
But the shock was very real.
The match resulted in Slytherin’s victory. Every Slytherin Junior applauded. Except three.
“Have you packed everything you'll need, Miss Granger?", asked Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. She'd be the one to accompany Hermione to Ilvermorny for the Transfiguration tournament.
Hermione gave a small nod. "Yes, Professor. I'm ready."
Her voice was calm and composed, as though nothing at all had happened.