Toil and Trouble Chapter 19 : Unremembered hours - Part 2 of 3 (A Harry Potter fanfiction)
October 28, 1994. Gryffindor Tower
The Gryffindor second year common room was loud in the comfortable, untidy way only Gryffindor ever managed. Someone was arguing near the fireplace about Exploding Snap. A group of girls had claimed the armchairs by the window. The sound of light hearted conversation and homework discussion provided the ideal background noise.
Harry, Ron, and Dean were sitting at a low table near the hearth, their DADA essays spread out between them like evidence of a crime.
“This is impossible,” Ron declared, shoving his parchment away as though it had personally offended him. “Two feet on Pixie containment. What does she want? They’re small, they’re blue, and they nick your wand if you’re not looking.”
Harry glanced at his own half-written essay. “I’ve written ‘don’t panic’ three times in different ways. I’m not sure that counts.”
Dean leaned back in his chair. “That’s because your approach to essay writing is faulty. You’re both doing it backwards.”, he said.
Ron looked suspicious. “Backwards how?”
“You’re trying to write sentences before you know what you want to say,” Dean replied. “You make a list first. All the points you want to include. Then you number them. Then you turn each point into a paragraph.”
Ron stared at him. “That sounds like something Hermione would say.”
Dean shrugged. “Works, though.”
Ron huffed, but he pulled his parchment back toward him and dipped his quill in ink. “Fine. List. Points.”
He hesitated.
Then, reluctantly, began writing.
Pixies are fast and unpredictable.
He paused, frowned, then added another.
They go for wands first.
Harry looked over. “That’s true. One nearly got Neville's.”
Ron glanced at him, encouraged. He continued.
Defensive spells work better than offensive ones at close range.
Immobilising charms stop them mid-air.
He stopped again, surprised.
“Huh,” Ron muttered.
Dean leaned over to read. “That’s… actually solid.”
Ron frowned at the parchment. “I just remembered things. From books, and bits I've heard here and there. And what happened in class today.”
He added another point.
Keeping calm stops them from getting the advantage.
Harry smiled faintly. “Professor Mulqueen did say panic was optional.”
Ron snorted. “Yeah. Easy for her to say. She’s not the one getting her ears tugged.”
Still, he numbered the points neatly, then looked up, expression uncertain but faintly pleased.
“So… now what?”
Dean slid his own essay aside. “Now you turn each one into a paragraph. Explain, expand it. Examples help.”
Ron stared at his list again, then picked up his quill.
“Well,” he said, sounding almost surprised at himself, “I s’pose I can explain that bit.”
Harry watched him write, the scratching of Ron’s quill steadier now, more confident.
For once, Ron wasn’t struggling because he didn’t understand.
He just hadn’t realised he already did.
Ron had just finished explaining, at length, why Pixies were worse than gnomes when they heard a cheerful voice.
“Hi!”
All three of them looked up.
Colin Creevey, the small, bright-eyed first year, and carrying his magical camera like a sacred object, hurried into their common room with the unmistakable energy of someone who had just spotted a celebrity in the wild.
“Hi, Harry!” Colin said cheerfully, already weaving through chairs. “How are you doing today?”
Harry’s shoulders tensed.
“Uh. Fine,” he said, with the tone of someone who did not, in fact, feel fine.
Colin beamed. “That’s brilliant! I was just wondering....”
He raised his camera.
“...if I could get a picture of Harry Potter doing his homework!”
“Um....” Harry started, but before he could speak any coherent words,
Click.
The camera flashed.
“Thank you, Harry!” Colin said happily, lowering it and already backing toward the door.
There was a beat.
Then Ron snorted.
Dean lost it completely, laughter bubbling up as he leaned back in his chair. “Homework,” he managed. “That’s a new one.”
Harry dropped his forehead onto the table with a soft thud.
“I am never going to be normal, am I?" he muttered into the parchment.
Ron wiped his eyes. “Oh, don’t worry mate. He’ll run out of ideas eventually.”
Harry groaned. “No, he won’t.”
He lifted his head, resignation settling in.
“I can tell,” he said darkly. “He’s only just getting started.”
The fire crackled on, wholly unsympathetic.
The girls’ dormitory was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of floating candles and the occasional rustle of curtains stirred by a draft from the window. Ginny Weasley sat cross-legged on her bed, her precious diary lying open in front of her, quill moving quickly.
Thank you, Tom. Professor Morven said my potion was “remarkably well-balanced.”
You did the work, Ginny. I only reminded you what you already knew.
Ginny smiled despite herself.
You help me a lot. With Potions. And essays. I don’t think I’d have managed without you.
That’s what friends do, my dear. And I am glad to be yours.
Sometimes it feels like you’re the only one who really listens.
That’s because I do listen, Tom wrote. You’re my friend, Ginny. My only friend. And I would do anything for you.
Ginny’s smile widened, soft and unguarded.
She twirled the quill between her fingers, then watched as the ink formed again.
You’ve been studying all evening. Why don’t you go for a walk?
Ginny frowned slightly.
A walk? Why?
It isn’t curfew yet, came the calm reply. And a little fresh air will do you good. You’ve earned it.
Ginny glanced instinctively toward the window. The grounds were beginning to darken. It was an odd suggestion. Tom usually encouraged her to rest, or to read, or to write.
Still....
I suppose I could.
Excellent. Take me with you.
Ginny closed the diary, still smiling, and slipped it carefully into her pocket.
She pulled on her shoes, checked that the dormitory was quiet, and made her way toward the stairs.
The candles flickered as she passed.
The castle, as ever, watched in silence as she headed out toward the grounds.
The evening air was cold enough to raise gooseflesh along Ginny’s arms as she stepped out onto the grounds. She took a few steps forward, and then stopped.
Someone was standing near the edge of the Forbidden Forest.
At first, Ginny thought it was a trick of the light. Then she recognised the pale hair, loose and bright even in the dark.
“Luna?” she murmured.
Luna Lovegood stood quite still, a little apart from the trees, her hands folded loosely in front of her. She wasn’t looking at the forest.
She was smiling. At nothing Ginny could see.
Ginny hesitated. She considered calling out. Considered walking over and saying hello, asking what Luna was doing.
Then, without quite knowing why, she felt a small, sharp resistance inside her. Not fear. Not exactly. Just… reluctance.
As though the moment had already passed.
Ginny turned away.
She wandered instead along the curved path skirting the lawn, boots crunching softly against frost-stiffened grass. The castle receded behind her as the grounds opened up, quiet and wide.
That was when she heard it.
CLUCK.
Then another.
Ginny tilted her head, listening. The sound came again, unmistakable.
“Roosters?” she whispered.
Curious now, she followed the noise toward the edge of the grounds near Hagrid’s hut, where a warm glow spilled from the windows and smoke curled lazily from the chimney.
“Hello?” she called, a little uncertainly.
Hagrid looked up from where he was adjusting the latch on a small coop.
“Well I’ll be...” he said, blinking in surprise. “Ginny Weasley, is it? Y’alright there?”
Ginny smiled, relieved. “Yes, sir. I heard the noise and wondered.... are those your roosters?”
Hagrid’s face split into a broad grin. “Are they ever. Loud as thunder, they are. Wake me up every mornin’ at the crack o’ dawn, whether I like it or not." He then added warmly, "And you can call me Hagrid, child."
Ginny laughed softly. “They sound… very awake Hagrid."
“Too awake,” Hagrid said fondly. “Persistent little blighters.”
Ginny glanced around, then back at him. “Do you... do you spend all your time here then?"
Hagrid barked out a laugh. “Me? Oh no, not hardly. Every mornin’, ‘fore breakfast, I walk the peripheries o’ the Forest with Professor Moody. He checks the wards, makes sure everythin’s still where it ought to be."
Ginny’s eyes widened slightly. “Every morning?”
“Like clockwork,” Hagrid said. "The Professor's an ex auror, as I'm sure ya know. But I know that Forest like the back of my hand. And of course I got all my duties as a groundskeeper."
Ginny looked thoughtful.
Hagrid straightened and glanced toward the castle. “Ya know, curfew’s near done, Ginny. Wouldn’t want you gettin’ in trouble wanderin’ about.”
Ginny nodded quickly. “Of course. Thank you, Hagrid.”
She turned back toward the path. As she walked away, the roosters clucked again, sharp and insistent under the darkening sky.
October 29, 1994. Hogsmeade
The letter had arrived shortly after breakfast.
Draco had recognised it immediately - sleek, pale-feathered, bearing the Malfoy crest.
The parchment was thick, expensive, the ink pressed deep into the fibres.
It was from his father.
Lucius Malfoy had ordered his son to remain at Hogwarts for Samhain. Telling him that circumstances at the castle may soon become... instructive. And that it was important for him, the Malfoy heir, to report to his parents anything unusual he might see. Details mattered.
That was all. No explanations. No elaboration.
Draco tasted the words , let them settle.
His father had used this particular tone before, not when giving orders, but when expecting results. When something was being set in motion.
A fragment of memory surfaced. Lucius standing near the hearth last weekend, cane resting against his palm, voice low and thoughtful.
Hogwarts has grown… cluttered, he had said. A great many things have been allowed to linger.
Draco’s mouth curved into a small, anticipatory smile. As he walked the streets of Hogsmeade with his friends, he suspected some things were finally about to be put in order.
The Three Broomsticks was crowded and cheerful, steam fogging the windows and laughter spilling over from nearly every table. The smell of baked apples and warm pastry hung thick in the air.
Harry leaned back in his chair, brushing sugar from his fingers, while Ron looked as though he was contemplating a second, possibly third, cinnamon twist.
Hermione sat opposite them, teacup cradled between her hands, expression thoughtful rather than indulgent.
“I was wondering,” she said casually, “have either of you given any thought to what electives you’ll choose next year?”
Both boys groaned in perfect, practiced unison.
“Oh no,” Ron said. “Not this.”
“Next year’s problem,” Harry added. “Future Harry can deal with it.”
Ron nodded vigorously. “Exactly. I’ll decide when next year actually turns up.”
Harry laughed and nudged Hermione lightly with his foot under the table. “Honestly, Hermione, relax. It’s not even November yet. We’ve got ages.”
Hermione took a sip of her tea.
“I’ve already decided,” she said.
Harry blinked. “You have?”
Ron stared at her as if she’d just announced she’d finished all her NEWTs early. “All of them?”
“Yes.”
Ron slumped back in his chair. “Of course you have.”
Harry shook his head, half amused, half resigned. “Let me guess. Everything?”
Hermione smiled, small, precise, and entirely unapologetic.
“Not everything,” she said. “Just what’s useful.”
Ron groaned again and reached for another pastry.
Harry watched her over the rim of his mug, curiosity flickering beneath the humour.
Useful, with Hermione, Harry had learned, usually meant necessary.
The bell above the door jingled, letting in a rush of cold air and a familiar, breathless energy.
“Harry! There you are!”
Harry sighed.
Colin Creevey stood just inside the doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold, magical camera already hanging around his neck like a badge of honour. His eyes had locked on their table with uncanny accuracy.
He hurried over, nearly colliding with a passing witch and apologising profusely without breaking stride.
“Hi, Harry!” he said brightly. “Hi, Ron! Hi, Hermione!”
Hermione blinked, a little startled.
“Hello, Colin,” she said politely.
“I was hoping I’d run into you,” Colin continued, practically bouncing. “I mean, Harry Potter, obviously, but also Hermione Granger. You’re the top student in second year! You’ve already got more points than anyone!”
Hermione flushed. “That’s… very kind of you.”
Colin beamed, clearly delighted to have delivered this important information. He shifted the camera in his hands, eyes darting between Harry and Hermione.
“Would you mind if I took a picture?” he asked eagerly. “Of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger together?”
Hermione froze.
Harry glanced at her, surprised, then shrugged lightly. He leaned closer and murmured, “It couldn’t hurt.”
She hesitated for half a second, then nodded.
“All right,” she said.
Colin raised the camera, grinning from ear to ear.
“Brilliant! Just like that...”
The flash flared briefly, capturing the moment. Harry’s easy grin, Hermione’s composed but uncertain expression, the edge of warmth between them.
Ron’s good humour evaporated.
“Oi!" he snapped, twisting in his chair as Colin lingered uncertainly by the table. “We were in the middle of a conversation, you know.”
Colin’s smile faltered.
“Oh... I... sorry,” he said quickly, shoulders drooping. He tightened his grip on the camera strap. “I didn’t mean to...”
Before he could finish, a familiar, lazy drawl cut cleanly through the noise of the pub.
“Potter.”
They all turned.
Draco Malfoy stood a few paces away, flanked by his usual entourage, pale hair immaculate, expression sharpened into something openly contemptuous. His eyes flicked over the table at Harry, Ron, and then lingered, deliberately, on Hermione and Colin.
“Well,” Draco said, lips curling, “you certainly have a knack for attracting filth.”
Hermione went very still.
“Famous Harry Potter,” Draco continued, "Hero of all Mudbloods.”
The word had the desired effect.
Ron was on his feet before either Harry or Hermione could even react, chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“Get lost, Malfoy,” Ron snarled, stepping right into Draco’s space. “Or I’ll...”
“Ron,” Hermione said sharply, tugging at his sleeve. “Don’t. He isn’t worth it.”
Draco’s gaze slid to her, amused.
Up close, his smile was cold and satisfied.
“Careful there, Granger,” he said, with mock softness. “You might find one day you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”
For a moment, Hermione held his gaze. Steady, unreadable.
Then Draco stepped back, clearly pleased with himself.
“Come on,” he said to his friends. “Some of us still have standards.”
They turned and stalked off, green and silver vanishing into the crowd.
The table felt smaller once they were gone.
Harry broke the silence first.
“What the hell was that about?” he demanded. “What did he mean?”
Hermione picked up her teacup, “Nothing, I'm sure” she said lightly. “Just Malfoy being Malfoy. Don’t think about it.”
Ron sat back down hard, still fuming.
Harry watched her for a long moment, unconvinced. Hermione took a sip of tea and met his eyes calmly.
Some things, she knew, were better dismissed aloud, even when they lodged quietly, and refused to leave.
The trio parted near the centre of Hogsmeade.
Harry and Ron drifted off with Dean and Seamus toward the Quidditch supply shop, already arguing cheerfully about broom polish and grip charms, while Hermione turned down a narrower side street, after telling the boys she'd see them back at the castle.
The shop she headed for did not announce itself. Its sign was small and faded, the lettering nearly rubbed away by time, and the front window was cluttered with uneven stacks of books rather than displays. Some were bound in cracked leather, others in cloth so worn the titles had long since vanished.
Hermione stepped inside. The bell above the door chimed softly.
The shop smelled, almost overwhelmingly, of dust and old parchment. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, sagging under the weight of books that had been handled, loved, and forgotten in equal measure.
An old witch sat behind the counter, hair silver and pinned back loosely, spectacles perched low on her nose as she read.
She looked up as Hermione approached. “Looking for something in particular, dear?”
Hermione hesitated only a moment. “Yes,” she said. “Do you have any books about House-elves? Their history...”
The witch studied her over the rim of her spectacles.
For a long moment, she said nothing, just studied Hermione’s face. Then said, “Yes, I think I have what you're looking for. Wait here.”
She disappeared into the back of the shop. When the witch returned, she carried three books.
They were ancient, their bindings cracked, pages yellowed, titles barely legible.
She placed them gently on the counter.
“These are not… popular texts,” the witch said quietly. “Information regarding elves has been strictly controlled by the Ministry for a very long time. What little survives tends to vanish.”
Hermione’s eyes traced the spines reverently.
“I would appreciate it, child” the witch continued, “if you didn’t mention where you found them. My shop has managed to avoid attention so far. I’d like to keep it that way.”
Hermione looked up. “I understand.”
The witch named the price without ceremony. “That'll be one Galleon and thirty Sickles.”
Hermione reached into her purse and placed two Galleons on the counter.
“Please, keep the change,” she said.
The witch blinked, then smiled warmly.
Hermione gathered the books carefully, sliding them into her bag as though they were fragile things. Which they were, given the state of them.
At the door, she paused and glanced back.
“Thank you,” she said.
The witch inclined her head. “Anytime, sweet girl”
The bell chimed again as Hermione stepped back into the cold air of Hogsmeade.
She walked away with her bag heavier than before, not just with books, but with knowledge the world had decided she wasn’t meant to have. And she had never been very good at respecting such decisions.