Toil and Trouble
By: ElmoruthPotterfan6

Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble…Something wicked this way comes.

(Post-War; Dead: All BUT Fred; Ships: Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, Fred/Hermione, George/Angelina; Year: Summer, 1999)
Hermione has scar on arm (MUDBLOOD) as in from movie.

A/N: I am sad to say that I had to delete the original Toil and Trouble. My writing style changed and I feel like it wouldn't be fair to the other chapters if they didn't fit the same as the new ones. I also came to a problem with timing. Now that I know what I'm planning to do in future chapters, I can plan accordingly for the other things. This re sparked my energy for the rest of the chapters.
Please review and tell me what you think. If you want, message me, too.
Enjoy.

Chapter One: The Ineffectiveness of Time (Time Heals All Wounds)

Draco Malfoy stared at his forearm. It stared back, empty eyed and snake-twined. Forever it would be bound there on his arm, a decoration that stood a declaration of a belief he did not hold. It stood a reminder of times he wanted to forget but was unable to. So many things were burned deeply beneath his eyelids. Time played a major part of healing wounds.

Hogwarts was reopened shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts, or as many called it amongst themselves as the Great War, the Final Battle. Those who were old enough to fully understand and those who fought with those who died, named it the Battle of Hogwarts. It didn't matter what they called it, Draco didn't want to talk about the subject. He was asked to often at first. After promising to severely hex a several students of various ages, he was left alone on the subject.

Throughout the school year, many unused and therefore destroyed classrooms were being restored by volunteers of the Wizarding World as well as most of the students who were capable of handling the complex magic. Only a handful of classrooms were used to hold classes and were spread around the castle almost like the time before the corridors littered bits of brick. The castle walls were almost completely restored before snow rolled in the hallways. House dormitories often housed a few empty beds. The student body wasn't as large as before, but Hogwarts didn't turn any away who wanted to learn. Those who were unable to complete their year during the Battle for any reason were encouraged to finish and sometimes another body was added to the class size without question. Capable teachers who agreed to teach were placed into sturdy classrooms with ever eager students. All wanted normality.

It was not as if Draco needed to come back for what was now called the "Eighth Year". Many in his year didn't bother to return; keen to start a life without fear. Draco came back because he constantly lived with fear. He was not popular within the community of those who escaped the clutches of the Ministry. Nor was he in the favor of many of those who fought against Voldemort. Only a few were impartial to him; this included the people who were once his enemies.

Draco covered the skin deep eyes with the sleeve of his white, long sleeved shirt. He often wore as much as he could to cover the ugly mark on his arm. His own pale eyes shifted to the open trunk at the foot of his bed. He had not yet bothered to pack, almost unwilling to make himself move. Draco and all of the other students would be leaving soon and there would be no place to protect him against whoever may want to pick him off the face of the Earth. He could name a few or many; it depended if time had healed their wounds as inefficiently as the wound he was determined to cover with cloth.

Draco didn't have many friends in his extended year. He had few words to offer and even less to say in a conversation. Before the Battle, Draco had what one could call 'friends'. He did and sometimes didn't. It depended on his mood. The people that were closest to him dwindled down to a spare few. Two were dead and one was is Azkaban. When one extended further onto his acquaintances, one didn't return for the Battle, and almost none returned to Hogwarts. But, as Draco often reminded himself, it was all in the matter of speculation. He didn't seem to miss the people he had surrounded himself with when he was younger, spare Crabbe and Goyle. Maybe Blaise as well.

Throughout the past year, Draco stayed closest to those in the Eighth Year, but he carried very little value into their musings. Neither party mattered. They had all seen the same horror, but Draco believed that he experienced more horror than his year have. He thought, to himself of course, that his experience measured up to a Granger and half of a student. Draco's mouth would then twitch, attempting to smirk, but would mold back into his set frown. He felt he had no need to smile, no reason to.

With his trunk full of his possessions, he slammed it shut, hard. Silently, he cursed the ineffectiveness of time.

.

Hermione Granger stared out of the train window as the blur of trees flew ever faster. She couldn't remember a time when she stared out of the window like she did now in the train corridor, her trunk leaning beside her. She leaned against the cooling window glass and pressed her hands against it. Between her outstretched fingers, the green of the trees painted a canvas between her hands and she stared with child- like wonder. Then it came to her. Hermione watched the platform disappear her first year at Hogwarts, craning to see her parents pop out of sight in the mess of other parents seeing their children off. It seemed ages ago. She pushed the lump in her throat away, remembering that they would not be waiting at King's Cross to collect her. Quickly, she wrenched her hands off of the window.

They say time heals all wounds, but one does not know how long time is.

Hermione glanced around the train corridor. The students wishing to catch the last bit of Hogwarts had dispersed into their seats. Not bothering to look for Ginny, she turned to look for an empty seat. Ginny would be with a few of her own friends, though Hermione expected the younger to look for her more than midway through the train ride. Easily finding an empty compartment, she stowed her trunk in the overhead space and sat next to the window. She almost regretted not pulling out a book to read for she began to feel sick watching distance pass by her.

She imagined she should feel happy; she was going to see her best friends she hadn't seen since Christmas. Of course she would be, she was, happy but something tugged at her and prevented her from feeling too elated. She missed her boys, Harry and Ron. She wanted to talk to them in person rather than conversing through owl. She couldn't get too mad about their lack of insight in their letters. They were more like Harry's letters and not Ron's because Ron almost never bothered to write her. "Miss you – Ron" he would scribble at the end of Harry's letters right by Harry's name. More than often they ended up in the fireplace and a good, long glare off of Hermione's anger.

Hermione tried to argue for Ron's behavior. First she told herself that he was busy with Auror training. She would then contradict that thought with another thought that Harry was able to find time to owl her. She quickly ran out of excuses for Ron's behavior and considered her relationship, or lack thereof one, with him. She may have feelings for him, but now she was unsure if she really felt them or not.

"Such a prick," she murmured to herself, scaring away her thoughts with the sudden spoken outburst.

"What am I going to do?" she asked the window. Her queasiness slowly pushed away.

Maybe I should just wait and see. Maybe time will tell.

Hermione shifted her thoughts to what she was going to do now that she was out of Hogwarts. She stared out of the window almost transfixed in her thoughts until she was jarred by a knocking on the compartment window. She jumped, startled, almost as much as who knocked on the thin glass.

"Can I join you? All the other ones have people in them," Malfoy asked, his voice almost flat, his face hard.

"Not at all," she replied and motioned to the full bench in front of her. He thanked her and hoisted his trunk in the overhead storage. Hermione couldn't help but wonder why he was sitting in the same compartment as she was.

Stop it, silly. He faced as much as you did. You need not feel like he is still an enemy.

They hadn't spoken much during the year. She had told off a few students who were making quick remarks about him, but she wasn't sure if he knew it. At least, he didn't thank her. She didn't expect him to. He was still Malfoy after all. After a few moments, Malfoy pulled out a small, tattered black book from his cloak pocket. Hermione saw that many pages were dog-eared and re-folded back into upright position. She then looked out the window to prevent from the awkward feeling of staring too long. In her rucksack, she pulled out The Daily Prophet from that morning. She had already looked through it earlier that morning, but it was better than staring out the window.

.

Tonight, they were going to celebrate. After dinner, Harry Potter proposed to Ginny Weasley under the shade of the old oak tree. All of the friends of the family were called for an impromptu celebration party. Bill, Fleur, Percy, Fred, and George were already at the Burrow. A few remaining members of the Order trickled into the yard where Mrs. Weasley set floating lanterns in the tree. It was around midnight when most vacated the lawn and left for their own homes.

Hermione remained on the old picnic table with a glass of Firewhisky in her hand. She tilted it back and swallowed it in one gulp. It burned her throat, but she paid it no mind, it was almost numbing after her third shot. Tonight was not about her, she had to remind herself. It was about her friends.

"I hardly believe it, you are barely out of Hogwarts, Ginny," Mrs. Weasley kept fussing, always adding that she was happy, nonetheless.

Hermione kept her thoughts to herself. She was twenty, nearly twenty one in two months. Harry hadn't turned twenty himself yet and Ginny nineteen. Hermione couldn't help but compare herself to them in age. They both were younger than she and marrying before she could firmly grasp herself a relationship. She wasn't bitter, but no word that she thought of described it better than that. She looked down at her empty glass.

They are lucky, she thought. Lucky to find themselves early in life.

She had to wait for hers to clarify itself. Time was another fickle thing. She thought harder on this as she picked the pealing chips off of the wooden table.

"Looks like you need another," said a voice. Hermione looked up and saw Fred walking to her with a full bottle of Firewhisky.

"Hullo, Fred," she replied.

He sat next to her and poured more liquid into her glass. "I'm George," he pushed, sliding her glass closer to her.

"Nice try," she laughed, grabbing onto the glass with one hand and tugging on her ear with the other, "You have two of these."

Absently, Fred reached to his own head, "Oh, hell, right. I guess so." He drank from the bottle.

"You also have a freckle on your nose," she sipped at the Firewhisky.

Fred frowned and raised an eyebrow, "A freckle?" He poured more into her glass.

"Could be a mole," Hermione witted back, shrugging.

"I'm sure it's a freckle."

"Don't worry. The fact that you have two ears on the side of your face is more noticeable than that," she drained the remainder in her glass. "Does your mother approve?" she asked, her voice heavy from the drink. She indicated to the bottle he had in his hands.

Fred shook his head and poured more into her glass, "With the way she's fussing with those two," he nodded his head to the house behind them where the rest of the party moved to, "that she wouldn't notice me even if I'd danced naked in front of her and everyone."

Hermione laughed.

"Now that's something to see," Fred winked, "I've got a freckle on my right arse cheek as well."

"Are you sure it isn't a mole?" she teased.

"Tut, tut, Hermione. 'Freckle' is more dignified than 'mole'. It's on my arse; I need to make it have a good reputation."

"And how do you know said freckle?" She sipped from her glass.

Fred's smile widened, "Well, bullocks, Hermione, I've been told."

They both laughed. Hermione tilted her head upward to the sky. The night sky was still, peaceful. No cloud blotted the moon from view. She stared at it; the thoughts she had previously were pushed aside and hushed. Something raced through her mind, a small thought that caught her off guard. It streaked across her mind and then faded, like a falling star, leaving her confused. Distracted, she glanced at Fred. He too, looked at the sky but not in wonder. His thoughts were close to him and were not about the stars bright above.

It took her by surprise how much he differed from Ron. Of course they were of the same family and resembled each member slightly, but the differences between the two were great. Ron was taller, like Bill, his features elongated to fit his length. Fred and George were shorter, like Charlie. Unlike Charlie and more like Ron, the Twins were lean while Charlie and Bill were wide. Percy was the shortest of the bunch, followed by Ginny. Two sets of eye color ran in the Weasley household. Ron had blue eyes like Mr. Weasley, Charlie, and Percy and Fred and George had brown eyes like Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Ginny. Of course, all of the Weasleys had the same color of flaming red hair.

Personality was what really separated Ron from the Twins the most. The Weasley clan had a temper, but Ron's temper was the worst in the family. The color would rise to Ron's ears long before the Twins would crack a joke in response. The Twins set themselves apart from the rest of their siblings as the jokers, the ones to lighten the mood. From what Hermione could tell, in theory, the Twins were different from each other as well. Beside the missing ear, George didn't look different than Fred did. Before the accident, the elusive freckle Hermione saw was what kept the two trouble makers clear in her mind. Fred seemed, to her, more realistic, the brains, the one who started it. George was a go-getter, the one to follow through.

Hermione could see Fred watching her from the corner of his eye. Slams of the screen door made her turn around, breaking her thoughts entirely. Ron sat himself on the other side of Hermione.

"What a night, eh?" he asked. The table groaned a little.

"I guess so. It isn't every night when there is a celebration," Hermione replied, twisting her glass in her hands.

"Hell, Hermione, I celebrate every night, don't you?" Fred chipped in, his lips barely touching the bottle as he winked. Hermione tried not to laugh too loud for Ron's sake.

Ron didn't answer nor reply a retort. The tips of his ears grew red and he started to bounce his leg. The table reverberated with his shakes. Hermione knew how he felt about her, how nervous he sometimes got when they were close. Her feelings for him were not as clear. If she pursued it, the relationship between them would be safe; the easiest one to fall into. It was what was expected of them to do. There was a time when she thought she wanted it too. Now she wasn't so sure.

Hermione said, "Merlin, Ron, you are going to tip us over." When it was clear that neither man would leave, she gave her glass to Fred to fill. She got up from her spot and walked around the table to the other side. Fred handed back her glass.

This was no better. Both Weasleys looked at her as if she was going to start the conversation. She, for once, didn't know what to say. Instead, she looked at her glass. It suddenly didn't appeal to her to drink anymore. She swirled her finger around the rim.

"Are you OK, Hermione?" Ron asked.

"Yes, I am OK, Ronald," her tongue bit, her tone sharp, "It is a happy day two of my friends get engaged to each other. And I am happy for them, I really am. Hazzah!" The two men looked at her with different expressions. One was confused, shrinking from the sharp tone. The other smiled, liking her whip and raised his bottle in return.

Maybe one last drink wouldn't hurt. She finished her last glass.

"So happy," she repeated, pushing her glass away from her.

"How many have you had?" Ron asked; his face still in the state of confusion.

Hermione shrugged, "Dunno." Her words felt clear to her, but maybe they weren't to others. Hermione wasn't a drinker.

"OK, maybe you've had enough," Ron slowly said, grabbing the glass. Hermione felt a bubble of anger rise from her stomach. Maybe she should have stopped a few glasses back.

"Oh, piss off, Ron. I am the oldest of our group and my youngest friend and my second youngest friend are getting married while I sit here alone and miserable. They are getting married and yet I still haven't gotten a good lay," Hermione felt the words roll out of her mouth and knew she shouldn't have said the things she did. She normally wouldn't have, either. The words felt so good released from her mind and used freely that she instantly forgot about regretting them.

"And you, Ron Weasley," she continued, pointing a finger at him. Ron's face paled, "You just sit there. You don't act like you care a damn about me, yet have the nerve to string me along with these confusing…feelings while you just sit there and…sit."

The words were harder to grasp. Her anger boiled along with the Firewhisky.

"I shouldn't wait for you," she finished, getting herself up from the table. "You should beg for me."

She turned to the Burrow and stomped through the door. The house was silent. They seem to have been the last ones to retire for the night. Hermione tried to quiet her feet. Before she made her clumsy way upstairs, she grabbed herself a glass of water.

"That was brilliant, Hermione," said a voice beside her. On a normal day, she would have been startled.

"No, Fred," she replied as seriously as she could through various tuffs of laughter. "It was fucking brilliant." She poked his nose and went to bed.

A/N: Please review and tell me what you think. If I get a handful of reviews, I will post the next chapter next Sunday.

Much love!