Toil and Trouble Chapter 6 : Foundations
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(Toil and Trouble is a rewrite of the Harry Potter saga)
From the age of nine years, Harry Potter had grown up in a house that was never silent. Laughter and footsteps had filled Grimmauld Place in ways it never had before, and he had quickly learned that a home could be made, not just inherited. Sirius had often played with him as Padfoot, bounding through the halls in a blur of dark fur, letting Harry tumble onto his back and clutch fistfuls of coarse hair as though riding a small horse. Padfoot's tongue would hang out, and Harry would laugh so hard he could hardly breathe. All the while Remus would lean against the doorframe, that familiar quiet smile on his face, his eyes filled with affection.
It had been the kind of childhood where transformations like that were a part of day to day life. Harry had grown up knowing his godfather could, at any moment, turn into a dog as large as a pony.
He also knew that Remus carried something inside him that came out every full moon. The transformations had never frightened him. What unsettled him was the worry. Harry had learned, at nine, to count the days until the full moon hung in the night sky. He would ask Remus, every time, if it hurt, if it was dangerous, if Remus would be all right. The answers had never changed. Always the samd gentle assurances that Remus was fine, that Wolfsbane helped, that Sirius would be there to keep both Harry and Remus safe.
But Harry would worry nonetheless. He'd never feared Remus, but had feared for him.
Kreacher had remained part of their household. Still grumpy and ever muttering. Only he had grown less venomous. A lot less unpleasant than Sirius had warned Harry to expect. Perhaps it had been the boy’s stubborn kindness, or perhaps it had something to do with the small, simple act of giving the elf his own room. Harry had insisted on it. He had felt terrible when he heard that the old elf slept in a cage. When Harry asked that Kreacher be given a room, there are so many in this house, he'd said, Sirius had not denied him. And soon, the bitter old house elf was sleeping in his own room, on a real bed with a real mattress and a pillow.
At first, Kreacher had been bewildered at the kindness. Then scornful. And then, strangest of all, quiet. He still muttered and still called Harry “half-blood master” under his breath, but the sharpest edge had dulled. Although the elf had sputtered in outrage the first and only time Harry had requested Sirius buy him some decent clothes, there was a noticeable difference in his attitude. In his own grudging way, old Kreacher had softened, if only a little bit. If only for Harry.
The stories of the past had filled the house as surely as Padfoot’s paws or Kreacher’s mutters. Harry had grown up knowing that he was The Boy Who Lived, and exactly how he had earned that title. He listened to tales of the Great Wizarding War, and how it had come about. Neither Sirius nor Remus had hidden much from him. He had learned that the war had been a time when people vanished overnight, when betrayal could come from a neighbour, or a friend. When hope itself had seemed on the brink of death. About the fear and the darkness brought on by Voldemort and the so called "Order of Purity". Referred to as the Dark Order by those who dared to stand against it.
Harry learned of the bravery of those who had stood their ground and fought, no matter the odds.
His questions about Voldemort seemed endless. He asked why the Dark Wizard had harmed innocents, why he had killed James and Lily. The answers had not always been simple, but Sirius and Remus had given them honestly, in the plain words a child could grasp.
Bravery, they had told him, was not about fearlessness. It was about love. His parents had been brave because they had loved him, loved magic and each other more than they had feared the monster.
Every year, on James and Lily’s birth anniversaries, their death anniversaries, their wedding anniversaries, Sirius and Remus would take their son to their graves. They'd usually spend the day there. Harry talking to his parents, telling them about all the new things he was experiencing and learning. His parents' two best friends silently repeating all the promises they'd made.
As he grew, Harry learned of the way his father had once deulled four Death Eaters at the same time. How his mother had laughed in defiance when Voldemort asked her to join his ranks in exchange for safety, glory and riches.
Harry came to understand that the war was waged because Voldemort wanted to purge Wizarding Europe of all those he deemed "undesirable". Including witches like his mother. Muggle-borns.
Harry hadn't been kept in the dark about the ugly truths of their world. Neither of his father figures ever discouraged him from using Voldemort’s name. He had every right to say it, they'd told him.
Stories of the Wizarding War had fascinated and frightened young Harry in equal measure. At nine years of age, he had asked why anyone had followed Voldemort at all. At ten, he had asked whether Voldemort was truly gone.
At twelve, he had asked the question that had silenced Sirius and made Remus turn pensive - was it possible for him to come back?
They had not lied to him. They would never lie. Voldemort was gone, he'd been defeated. But neither Remus nor Sirius were naive enough to think that he'd been destroyed. Magic was unpredictable, and evil was stubborn.
Harry had been told gently, with care, that vigilance was important. He had not been made to feel afraid, but he had been made to understand that courage was not a word for fairy tales. It was part of his parents' legacy. He'd also been told in no uncertain terms, that should the Dark Lord ever return, the Order of the Phoenix would stand by Harry Potter.
Remus and Sirius had treated Harry’s education with the seriousness it required. While the boy himself wanted to know all about magic and flying brooms, Remus felt that he mustn't remain completely ignorant of Muggle subjects. He and Sirius had discussed whether or not to send him to a Muggle private school, up until he was ready to go to Hogwarts. The couple consulted Molly Weasley, who gently reminded just how extensive the Ministry approved pre-Hogwarts curriculum really was. Foundational study of magical theory, theoretical potions, magical history, mathematics, grammar, literature and basic Latin would occupy nearly all of Harry's study time.
In the end, it was decided that Remus would tutor Harry in four Muggle subjects - science, geography, world history and current events. Having spent years in the Muggle world, Remus was able to do this quite well, with help of muggle newspapers and textbooks suitable for Harry’s age group. The idea was to ensure that the boy did not lose touch with that part of his heritage.
On the other hand, Harry’s magical education was entrusted to Molly Weasley who had folded Harry into the lessons she gave Ron and Ginny as though he were one of her own.
He would sit beside Ron and Ginny at the Burrow’s kitchen table, parchment and quill in hand, while Molly quizzed them both about the Goblin Rebellion of 1612, or had them translate simple English sentences into Latin.
The arrangement had worked. Harry had learned his sums and his spells side by side. His understanding of photosynthesis and gravity grew under Remus’s quiet guidance, while his magical knowledge expanded under Molly’s able tutelage.
Evenings had often been Sirius’s domain. If Remus had filled Harry’s days with patience and precision, Sirius had filled his nights with laughter. Padfoot had bounded across the drawing room, scattering cushions and sending Harry into fits of giggles. Sirius had encouraged mischief the way Remus encouraged study. He'd show Harry and Ron how to flick soap suds across the bathroom, how to sneak extra pudding from Molly’s kitchen without her noticing. It had been a kind of levity that Harry had soaked up like sunlight.
Yet Sirius, too, had carried the past. Harry had caught his Godfather staring into the fire more than once, eyes shadowed. He had asked one evening if Sirius missed his parents. Sirius had pulled him close, caressed his messy hair, and told him that be missed James and Lily every day. But that he had both of them in Harry. And he was more than enough.
The grief had been there. But the love had been greater.
Kreacher had shuffled through it all, muttering still but less venomous, grudgingly delivering hot cocoa to Harry at night or muttering blessings when Harry sneezed. The old elf had never become warm, but neither had he remained cruel. In his own way, he had bent to Harry’s stubborn kindness, and that too, had made the house feel more like home.
The light in Harry’s life also came from another source - the Weasleys. Playing and splashing around with Ron, Fred, George and Ginny in the lake behind the Burrow. Being scolded by Molly for getting their clothes wet, and in the next moment being treated to the most delicious cookies in existence.
Among all the things Harry had come to love about the Burrow, none had amused him more than Ginny Weasley, and her relentless determination to never be left out. She had been smaller than the rest of them, her red hair a streak of fire darting between her brothers, always trying to prove that she could keep up.
The twins, of course, had made a sport of teasing her. To them she was “the baby of the family". Ron had tried to chase her off more than once, his voice cracking as he shouted for her to “go play dolls or something.” But Harry had never turned her away.
Whenever the twins organised Quidditch matches with makeshift goals in the orchard, Harry had found a way to bring Ginny in. He would insist that they needed a commentator, or a referee. Anything to give her a role. It hadn’t taken long before she was flying, too, first on a toy broom, then on one of the older, worn-out ones that Bill and Charlie had long discarded. She had been a natural from the start, reckless and graceful all at once, her laugh bright and fearless.
At other times, when the weather had kept them indoors, the chaos had shifted to wrestling matches on the sitting-room carpet. Ginny had never been content to sit and watch. She would hurl herself into the fray, all elbows and determination. More often than not she’d end up pinning Ron to the ground while he yelped in outrage.
Harry would always laugh and cheer.
"Shut up Harry!", Ron would hiss in annoyance. Of course, this only made Harry and Ginny laugh harder.
Weekends were often spent in Sirius’s Muggle house. After much begging and pleading, Molly had finally allowed Ron to accompany them and cross the Fold.
Televisions and computers fascinated Ron who at first had refused to believe that they could function without magic. Visits to amusement parks and movie theatres had been a different kind of magic.
Harry hadn't forgotten that family he'd left behind. He'd continued visiting the Dursleys every Christmas and Easter. And on the day before his birthday, so his aunt Petunia could continue her tradition of baking a birthday cake for him. His actual birthday he'd always spend with his fathers and the Weasleys.
Petunia had never been warm, but in her own way, she had been caring. The kettle had always been on when he arrived. There had always been a clean towel and pressed clothes waiting in his old room. His old room that had been left unused.
Harry had long stopped expecting affection from her, but sometimes, as he watched her in the kitchen, cooking meals that she knew he liked, he thought there was a kind of love in her silence. It was brittle, but real.
She had asked him, from time to time, if he was all right “in that world.” The words had always come hesitantly, as though she were afraid to name it. “That world”, she'd always call it. Harry would smile, polite and reassuring, and tell her that he was doing great, and that Sirius and Remus were taking excellent care of him. Petunia never asked for details, and he never offered more than she'd want to hear.
Dudley had been different. He had listened to Harry’s stories about brooms that shot into the clouds, about chocolate frogs and self writing quills. He'd gasped when Harry told him about a Hippogriff he’d seen at a magical farm. His eyes wide and full of wonder.
Once, Harry had asked if Dudley could visit Sirius’s Muggle house, and perhaps meet Ron. Sirius had said yes immediately. But when Harry had asked Petunia, she had gone white. Her lips had thinned, and for a moment, her eyes had flickered. Fear, sharp and inexplicable, behind her composure.
“Out of the question!” she had said, her voice tight.
When Dudley had insisted, she had done something Harry had never seen her do before. She had scolded her darling boy, before sending him to his room. She told Dudley he was never to go anywhere near "those people".
The silence afterward had hung thick in the air. Harry, for the first time, had felt a faint ache of sympathy for his aunt. She wasn’t being cruel, she was just afraid. Of the unknown, of loss, of something she could not control.
When Harry would leave in the evening, Petunia would not come to the door. She had stood by the sink, back turned. Often pretending to dry the same dish over and over. But once, Harry had stepped out onto the driveway he had seen her reflection in the window. He'd seen her shoulders trembling, just slightly.
By the time Harry reach the age of eleven, duelling lessons had become a regular part of his evenings at Grimmauld Place. Sirius had insisted it was time.
The duelling room in the basement had been prepared to enable Harry’s training. The walls themselves had been reinforced with a lattice of wards, woven so thick that the Ministry’s trace could never penetrate.
"No one will know that you're doing 'underage' magic here, Harry." Sirius had told him, speaking the word 'underage' as though it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. "Now you can start learning to defend yourself."
Harry had taken to martial magic the way most children took to running. With a natural, unthinking instinct. The first time he’d cast Expelliarmus, the red light had flared so sharply it knocked a tapestry clean off the wall. Sirius had whooped, clapping him on the back so hard the boy had stumbled. “Brilliant, Harry! Look at that aim! You’re a natural.”
Remus had smiled, but his eyes had been shadowed. It wasn’t that he disapproved of the lessons, not entirely. But when he watched Sirius crouch across from Harry, their wands raised in mock battle, something inside him twisted with unease. The spells they'd both agreed to teach Harry, such as Stupefy, Protego, even Expulso in brief, whispered theory were meant for defense. However it was the more intense spells that Sirius insisted on teaching his Godson, spells like Bombarda, Confringo, Rictusempra, Relashio, Obscuro.... these were the ones that worried Remus. Particularly when Harry became a bit over-adventurous with them - something Sirius never discouraged. Some of those spells could cause real injury. Some could actually deplete the magical energy of an eleven year old caster, if used carelessly.
Remus wondered if Lily would have approved.
“Padfoot,” Remus had said once, late one night in bed, after Harry had gone to sleep, “He’s only eleven. Do you think he's ready for all those combat spells you're teaching him?"
Sirius smiled and pulled his Moony into his arms.
"He had an aptitude for martial magic, Moony", he said as Remus rested his head in Sirius’s chest, "That means he's ready. The boy is strong."
Remus had sighed. "He is strong, I won't deny that....."
"Just look who his parents were...." Sirius interjected.
"Exactly" said Remus, now resting on his elbow and looking down at his lover. "He has James's bravery. You might even say, his recklessness. Lily would have wanted it tempered with caution."
A silence had followed, filled with the quiet ticking of the old clock. Sirius had finally looked up, his voice softer. “I’m not teaching him to fight for sport, Moony. I’m teaching him to survive. You know He's still out there. There's always a possibility that he'll find a way to come back. And if he does....”
"If he does, Harry will have both you and I to protect him. He'll have Molly and Arthur, and the entire Order. Our boy isn't alone."
Sirius hadn’t argued.
But Remus knew the ghosts that lived in Sirius’s eyes — Azkaban, betrayal, the graves at Godric’s Hollow.
By age twelve, Harry’s reflexes had sharpened. He moved like Sirius now — quick, instinctive, a flash of wrist and motion. His aim was steadier, his spells faster.
They’d been duelling one evening after dinner, Sirius half-grinning, half-taunting his pupil, “Come on, little Prongs, you’ll have to do better than that....”
Then suddenly... "EXPELLIARMUS!"
With a twist of intent and a bright streak of red, Sirius’s wand had flown from his hand, clattering against the far wall.
Sirius had stared at his empty hand, then at Harry, who stood blinking, almost unsure of what he’d done. Then Sirius had burst out laughing — loud, proud, and a little wild. He’d crossed the floor in two strides and pulled Harry into a fierce hug, spinning him once. Remus too had run to hug Harry, glowing with pride.
“Nice one, James!” Sirius had uttered, his arms around his godson.
For a second, Remus's smile had faltered.
March 14, 1993. 12 Grimauld Place/Skies above.
Harry had never seen the night sky look so alive. It wasn’t black at all. Not really. But a deep blue dotted with silver-grey clouds. The stars shimmered like pinpricks through gauze. The wind roared in his ears, stinging his eyes, tugging his hair back as the broom sliced through the air
The boy clung to the broom handle. A Nimbus 1800 Racing Broom. Sleek and powerful it seemed to respond perfectly to every non verbal command. Sirius, sitting right behind Harry with his arms around him as they both held on to the broom, was the one in control. Yet, he would occasionally allow Harry to steer, cheering his godson on and offering words of encouragement. Even though at twelve, Harry wasn't legally allowed to be on a broom. But Sirius Black had never allowed such trivial things as laws to stand in his way.
“Merlin's beard, Harry!" Sirius exclaimed, "You’ve got your dad’s flying instincts, I swear. Straight as an arrow!”
They soared higher, the ground shrinking beneath them until the houses were no more than tiny squares of gold and shadow.
Harry could barely reply through the exhilaration. “This is brilliant!” he yelled, and Sirius whooped, turning the broom into a wide arc that sent his stomach flipping. Below, the lights of the countryside blurred into ribbons.
They chased clouds, dove through pockets of fog that clung like cold silk. Sirius pointed out constellations, shouted the stories of Orion and Canis Major between bursts of laughter.
By the time they landed in the courtyard of Grimmauld Place, it was past two in the morning. The broom slowed before coming to a halt. Harry’s face was flushed red with wind and joy, hands still shaking when his boots touched the ground.
Then they saw Remus waiting by the door.
The expression on Remus’s face froze him faster than a freezing charm.
“Inside,” Remus said quietly.
Harry didn’t argue when Remus sent him straight to bed.
The shouting began before he’d even reached his room.
“Are you out of your bloody mind, Sirius?” Remus’s voice cut through the silence of the old house. “Do you even think before you act? He’s twelve! He's not eveb supposed to he on a broom...."
Sirius’s voice, defensive, “Oh, come off it, Moony. I was flying at nine....”
“And you nearly killed yourself more times than I care to remember.” Remus snapped. “I’m not about to watch you instill that same taste for misadventure into Harry."
Harry froze by his bedroom door, hand on the handle. He could hear the scrape of a chair, Sirius pacing.
“I just want him to have fun," Sirius said, quieter now. “He’s had enough rules and walls. We keep him hidden because You-Know-Who might be out there. We never even let him go to the markets by himself. The kid needs to be able to breathe. He deserves to live, Remus."
After a pause, Sirius stopped before Remus and looked into his eyes, "you should have seen him up there. The broom felt him. He was all James up there."
Remus’s voice was soft, melancholic, “James is gone, Sirius. You can’t get him back by turning Harry into him. Harry cannot be a replacement for Prongs."
Silence.
Then came Sirius’s voice again — low, raw, pained. “I know.” A pause. “Bloody hell, Moony. Don't you think I know? I didn’t.... I’d never put Harry at risk."
The next sound was Sirius's rapid footsteps ascending the stairs, before the door to the Master bedroom slammed shut.
Harry crawled into bed and tried to sleep.
During breakfast the next morning, all traces of the previous night's argument seemed to have vanished. Harry came down to see Kreacher setting the table, and Remus and Sirius standing by the large window. Remus's arm around Sirius’s waist in that familiar, comforting way.
"Good Morning", Harry said carefully, causing both men to turn around and smile warmly, before greeting him.
“I’m sorry about last night.”, Harry said in a small voice as the three of them sat down to eat.
Remus glanced up, then smiled faintly. “You don’t need to apologise, Harry. You weren’t the one breaking curfew, or breaking flying laws.”
He pointed his spoon at Sirius, who was mid-sip. “This one, however, is firmly in the doghouse.”
Sirius nearly choked on his tea. “Doghouse? That’s offensive, that is! Muggles would call you a bigot, Moony."
Harry snorted into his orange juice.
Remus raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer I say kennel?”
That broke the tension. Harry giggled helplessly, and Sirius groaned dramatically, clutching his chest. “You two are ganging up on me already. Traitors, both of you.”
And just like that, everything felt right again.
July 1, 1993. The Granger Residence, Hampstead
Hermione had taken to Latin with surprising ease. What had begun as awkward sounds whispered under her breath, half-formed syllables and uncertain emphasis, had become fluid and precise speech. She’d only been studying for ten months, since September 1992. Yet she could already read entire passages aloud from the textbook her tutor had recommended, without faltering.
Hermione had spent the months following Minerva McGonagall’s visit in preparation of the new life that awaited her, in that world about which she had only read in books that fascinated her. The books that the Professor had left her with had already been read multiple times. She’d done every exercise at the back, twice. For hours she'd sit with a pen or pencil in her hand, trying to perfect the wand movement for each and every single spell detailed in the spellbook. The theories of magical resonance, wand focus, and Latin etymology had become as familiar to her as her equations.
Her parents noticed the change before she said a word about it. The long, lonely silences of their brilliant daughter bent over physics texts were gone; in their place was a quiet hum of excitement. She smiled more now. There was that faintest look of satisfaction in her eyes. The look of someone who had finally found her calling. She woke early, as eager to study as always. The world around her, so long limited to numbers and logic, had opened into something wild and wonderful.
And though the Grangers were proud, there was a tightness to the smiles they shared when they watched her. They’d spent years knowing their daughter was extraordinary. But now they had undeniable proof of how unique she truly was. Their Hermione belonged to something beyond their reach. Each night, when she came downstairs to tell them about another charm she’d read or a new spell she’d learned, or some interesting fact about Wizarding history. They listened, nodded encouragingly. Yet, their hearts quivered with a quiet fear.
In the late afternoon, Hermione sat with her Latin tutor, Mr. Philip Venn, a thin, bespectacled man. He had a gentle but exacting manner — one Hermione secretly found delightful.
“Now then, Miss Granger,” he said, tapping the open page of De Bello Gallico with his fountain pen. “Let’s see if you can translate this next passage without notes. Remember your tenses.”
Hermione nodded, eyes bright with focus. She began confidently:
“Omnia Gallia divisa est in partes tres, quarum unam incolunt Belgae…”
She continued smoothly, her voice steady, the Latin precise and rhythmic. When she finished, she looked up, expectant.
Mr. Venn blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. “Excellent,” he said finally. “No hesitation, perfect syntax. How long has it been, Hermione? Ten months?”
“Just about,” she said modestly, though her eyes shone. “Latin is a very logical language once you understand the structure. I like how precise it is. It feels almost like solving an equation.”
He chuckled. “I daresay, if you keep this up, you’ll be translating Cicero for leisure by Christmas. You’ve gone far beyond what I expected of someone your age.”
Hermione smiled, but there was a quiet intensity behind it. “I like learning things properly,” she said simply.
When the clock struck four, Mr Venn packed his notes, still smiling in quiet disbelief. “Keep doing your translation exercises, my dear.” he said, shrugging into his coat. “Though you are very good, it never hurts to practice.”
Hermione nodded, and walked him out. She was about to shut the door when she noticed something very strange in the garden.
An large white owl stood on the front gate, watching her with intelligent amber eyes.
Hermione’s breath caught. Slowly, she crossed the yard, heart quickening with a sense of knowing she couldn’t name. The owl’s head tilted, and she saw it. An envelope, cream and wax-sealed, clutched in its beak.
The Grangers sat in their study as Hermione broke the seal and opened the letter.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Professor Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin (First Class),
Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards
Dear Miss Granger,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Your term will begin on 1 September. As a first-year student, you are required to arrive by the Hogwarts Express, departing from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King’s Cross Station, London.
Enclosed is a list of all necessary books, equipment, and personal items.
Before your formal induction into the magical world, it is required by wizarding law that all Muggle-born students and their parents complete official registration with the Ministry of Magic. To that end, Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, accompanied by Auror Cyril Campbell, will arrive at your residence tomorrow, at precisely 10:00 a.m.
They will escort you and your parents through the Dimensional Fold into Diagon Alley. From there, you will be safely Apparated to the Ministry of Magic to meet Mr. Arthur Weasley, Head of the Department for the Protection of Muggle-borns.
Please be advised that your family will be required to sign a Magical Secrecy and Integration Contract. Upon completion of this document, your connection to the wizarding world will be formally recognized and protected under Ministry law.
We look forward to welcoming you to Hogwarts and to the beginning of your magical education.
Yours sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore
Headmaster
The letter also came with a list of items they would have to purchase. The list included about a dozen books, quills, ink pot, school uniforms and robes, a wand, a school trunk, a school bag and an owl.
"Professor McGonagall did explain most of this to us", said Rose, looking at her husband and daughter.
"Yes," said Hugo, re-reading the letter, "I suppose after we sign this contract, we'll be taken to that bank... what was it called...?"
"Gringotts", replied Hermione. Unlike her parents, her facial expression was one of certainty.
"Yes, that's the one." said Rose. "We've already acquired the gold coins we'll exchange for their currency."
She smiled at Hermione, "in fact, your father and I have had them in our back locker for weeks now, darling. We've been anticipating this letter as much as you have."
Hermione smiled back, at both of them.
"I'll be fine, you know. I'm going where I'm meant to be."
Hugo took his daughter's hand and placed a tender kiss on it. "We know you will, love. Our strong and brilliant Hermione can handle anything."
Rose stood up and put her arms around Hermione, holding her close to her chest.
Her eyes locked with those of her husband. They displayed the same emotions she felt. Pride, affection and fear. Their little girl would soon go off to a place to which their parental protection did not extend.
July 1, 1993. Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire
Two letters lay on Lucius Malfoy’s polished desk. One sealed with the gold insignia of Hogwarts, the other stamped in deep crimson wax with the symbol of Durmstrang.
Lucius sat in his high-backed chair, the peacock-feather quill poised but forgotten in his fingers. Narcissa stood near the fireplace, her arms folded across her silk dressing gown, her expression a careful balance between calm and apprehension.
“Hogwarts,” Lucius said, flicking his wand so that the first letter floated open in midair. “They allow Mudbloods, Cissy. Half-breeds. The school’s standards have plummeted under Dumbledore’s reign.”
“Be that as it may,” Narcissa replied softly, “it is part of our history. Generations of Malfoys and Blacks have studied in that castle. So did we, Lucius. Do you truly wish to send Draco halfway across Europe, where we’ll see him only once a year?”
Lucius’s pale eyes narrowed. “Durmstrang would be better for him, my love. They still value purity. Their curriculum includes proper combat magic, not just childish defensive spells.” He made a disgusted noise and added, “Nor do they subject wizards and witches to Muggle Studies.”
Narcissa’s expression softened as she glanced toward the window. Beyond the glass, the gardens stretched wide and brilliant, and somewhere in the distance, a boy’s laughter carried faintly on the breeze.
Draco had just come in from his flying lessons, still flushed from the wind, his blond hair tousled under the summer sun. He rounded the corridor toward his personal suite, when he heard the murmur of voices through the half-open door of his parents' study. He paused, heart skipping. His name had been mentioned.
He leaned closer.
“.…but Hogwarts,” Narcissa was saying, “is close enough that he can come home for holidays. He’s never spent a single night away from us, Lucius. I can’t....” her voice broke slightly, “I can’t bear the thought of seeing him only once, maybe twice a year.”
Lucius sighed, taking his wife in his arms, “Cissy…”
“Please,” she said, her tone both pleading and fierce. “Let him go to Hogwarts. Let him follow in our footsteps. You know how he dreams of being in Slytherin.”
Outside the door, Draco’s breath caught. He clutched his broomstick to his chest, a wide grin spreading across his face.
Hogwarts. Slytherin.
He could already see it already. Green banners, silver snakes, his parents’ proud faces.
Inside, Lucius finally set the Durmstrang letter aside. “You do realise,” he said quietly, “that Dumbledore will try to fill his head with dangerous ideas.”
“We have raised him well, Lucius. I trust our son to know who he is,” Narcissa said her voice gaining an edge, she rested her hands on Lucius’s shoulders. “He’s a Malfoy and a Black. Nothing will change that.”
Lucius’s stern face softened. He smiled faintly, brushing the tips of his fingers against her soft cheek. “You always win, don’t you?”
“Only when I’m right,” she murmured.
He let out a quiet chuckle, then raised his voice slightly. “You may as well come in, Draco.”
There was a brief silence, before the door creaked open. Draco stepped inside, guilt and excitement warring on his face. “I wasn’t.... I mean, I just....”
Lucius arched an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten that it’s rude to eavesdrop?”
Draco swallowed, his heart hammering. “I’m sorry, Father.”
Lucius’s expression remained stern for a moment, then a smile appeared on his lips. “Well,” he said, withdrawing the parchment sealed with the Hogwarts crest, “since you’ve already heard half of it, we may as well tell you the rest.”
He handed the letter to his son. “Congratulations, Draco. You are going to Hogwarts.”
For a moment, Draco could only stare at the golden seal. Then he looked up, eyes bright. “Hogwarts.”
“Indeed,” Narcissa said, smiling now, her voice warm and proud. “You’ll be starting this September.”
Draco hugged his mother tightly before turning to his father, whose hand came to rest on Draco’s shoulder, steady and approving.
“You must make us proud, son.” Lucius said firmly. “Remember who you are. We expect nothing less than excellence.”
“I will,” Draco promised breathlessly. “I’ll be top of my class. I’ll bring glory to the Malfoy name.”
Lucius smiled, a rare, genuine smile that reached his eyes. “That’s my son.”
Narcissa brushed her fingers through Draco’s hair. “Our Slytherin,” she said softly before kissing his forehead.
And in that moment, standing between them, Draco felt something fierce and certain bloom in his chest. A desire to prove himself worthy of the name he carried.
The letter crinkled slightly in his hand, still unopened, but it didn’t matter. He already knew what it said. His destiny had begun.
July 1, 1993. The Burrow
The day had been long and heavy with heat, but inside the Burrow, Ron Weasley could hardly sit still. His freckled face was flushed, his fingers drumming against the wooden kitchen table as he watched the clock tick past six. The rest of his family had gone about their day with an ease he couldn’t share. Fred and George were laughing somewhere upstairs, Ginny was playing with a battered toy broom, and Percy was sitting in a corner, nose buried in a book.
But Ron’s heart was a restless drum. Every time an owl swooped by the window, he jumped.
No letter. Not yet.
He tried to tell himself it was fine, that sometimes the owls just came late. But the thought burrowed deeper and deeper until it was all he could think about.
What if it didn’t come at all?
He glanced toward the fireplace, where his mother’s knitting basket sat beside a cauldron of stew. The Burrow was as warm and full of life as ever, but Ron couldn’t shake the feeling of being…. small. Everyone in his family was something. Bill and Charlie were brilliant, exceptional. Percy was already House Captain material. Fred and George, for all their pranks, were still clever and go good marks. Even Ginny, still little, was fierce and so sure of herself.
And him? He couldn’t even remember half the things he’d read during his study hours.
He thought of Harry then. Harry, who was his own age, but already seemed older somehow. Confident, clever, quick with his wand. Harry, who could duel like it came naturally, who knew the kind of spells Ron would not begin to learn for a couple of years. And, of course, Harry was rich. The big house, the fleet of broomsticks, the enchanted toys Sirius bought him from places Ron couldn’t pronounce. Any time they went to Diagon Alley together, Ron could see people staring at Harry with awe and admiration.
He was the Harry Potter. Rich and famous.
A stab of jealousy twisted in Ron’s chest. But it was quickly swallowed by guilt.
How could I think that way about Harry?
Harry had no parents. He’d lost more before his first birthday than Ron could ever imagine losing. And despite everything, Harry had never looked down on him. Never once made him feel small or foolish. When Fred and George teased Ron for getting things wrong, Harry would jump in, defending him like a brother. He shared everything he had. Be it broomsticks or his Muggle toys. He had introduced Ron to things like the television, movies and video games. Any time Sirius and Remus decide to take Harry someplace new, hed always insist that Ron accompany them. To Harry, it wasn't a question of if, but how soon he'd share his things with his best friend.
Harry had always made Ron feel like he belonged.
No, Harry deserved good things. All the good things in the world.
Still, the insecurity crept back in.
What if Hogwarts doesn’t want me?
He imagined being left behind, too dull for the greatest magical school in all of Europe. His ears burned just thinking about it.
The sky outside had begun to turn grey, the golden light of evening fading into soft shadows. Ron pressed his forehead to the cool windowpane, eyes searching the horizon for even the smallest flicker of wings. Nothing.
The Burrow felt quieter now. The twins were gone. Probably up to something. The house creaked under the weight of stillness.
He tried to distract himself, flipping through one of Percy’s old textbooks, but the words swam before his eyes. He couldn’t concentrate. His stomach churned with dread.
It’s too late, he thought miserably. It’s not coming. They’ve realised I’m not good enough.
A lump rose in his throat. He blinked fast, refusing to cry.
Then came a sound outside. A soft hoot.
Ron’s head snapped up. Through the window, he saw a magnificent owl descending in the fading light, wings wide and golden against the dusk. It landed gracefully in front of the chicken coop. In its beak it held a thick envelope.
“Mum!” Ron shouted, stumbling over a chair as he ran toward the door.
Molly Weasley appeared in the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron. “What is it, dear?”
“The owl! The owl... It’s here!”
Molly’s eyes widened, and she hurried outside. The owl watched her with calm, intelligent eyes as she untied the envelope and murmured her thanks. When she stepped back into the kitchen, parchment in hand, her smile said everything.
“It’s for you, Ron,” she said softly. “From Hogwarts.”
For a moment, Ron couldn’t move. Then the breath rushed out of him in a disbelieving laugh. “Really?”
“Really.”
He took the letter from her trembling hands, his grin so wide it hurt. The golden crest gleamed faintly in the candlelight.
He was going to Hogwarts.
All the fear, all the doubt, melted away like mist in sunlight.
Molly reached out, cupping his cheek. “Told you it would come, my dear.”
Ron nodded, unable to speak. He clutched the letter to his chest, heart soaring.
He wasn’t a failure. He was a real wizard. He would learn magic at the same institution that had shaped his parents, and his older brother, Bill and Charlie.
As the first stars appeared over the crooked roof of the Weasley home, Ronald Weasley had never felt prouder, or happier, in his life.
